


The Aquatic Equation

by madrabbitgirl



Series: The Aquatic Equation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Canon, American AU, American Magical AU, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Creature Sherlock, Fluff and Crack, John Whump, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mermaids, Merman Sherlock, Merslash, Other, Philadelphia setting, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, United states AU, but now with added plot, casefic, creature!lock, mer!lock, mermaid sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: Sherlock is called in to investigate a missing researcher for his brother, but when an experiment goes wrong and leaves Sherlock changed forever, he needs to solve the case while hiding a new secret from his best friend. While John might not be the genius detective in the relationship, he's never been one to ignore a puzzle where Sherlock's behavior is concerned and makes it his new mission to find out what the man is hiding. Problem is, they're both out of their depth.* This is the rewrite of another fic that is now titled 'Aquatic Equation Drabbles'  but now with added plot action! *
Relationships: John Watson/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Aquatic Equation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657210
Comments: 34
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadMags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMags/gifts).



> Hi! Half-beta'd, written in Philadelphia instead of London, one because I'm American and two because I'm obsessed with my old home town and often liked to imagine the boys there back in 2015 when I started posting the original version of this story.

“What did you take?” 

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope with a smirk. “Care to rephrase that question?”

John did not, in fact, look as though he cared to rephrase the question. He looked exhausted, which meant it had been another busy day at the practice where he likely saw more than his share of patients thanks to one of the other providers being incredibly slow. He’d walked home to let out some stress which meant there was a light sheen of sweat on his brow. The light creasing on the left wrist cuff of his shirt showed he’d also spent more time than usual at the computer, so the second receptionist had likely called out sick again and he’d taken a few phone messages, which he abhorred. He was definitely not in the mood to be tried, and yet… 

“What did you steal from the scene?” John sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock snorted and glanced back down at the slide again. 

“Nothing important. It’s a missing person case. Barely a five,” Sherlock replied. “Mycroft already has a theory on what happened, I’m merely confirming his hypothesis.” 

“Did he actually care to share his hypothesis this time?” John asked, moving towards the fridge to search for a drink. Sherlock didn’t even bother to answer. “So there was nothing interesting about this case?”

“Out of material for your blog?” He removed one slide delicately and slid in another, bringing it into clearer focus. He knew that his bland drawl would annoy John just enough that he’d consider for two-point-five seconds whether or not he should smack Sherlock in the back of the head. “Unfortunately, there is nothing worth noting here. I reappropriated some of the chemicals this particular researcher was using, but it seems she was doing nothing more interesting than experiments in marine biology.” 

“Then why bother taking it?” John asked. 

“Bored.” 

“Of course.” John sighed, leaning back against the kitchen counter, gulping his water. The late September stroll through the city had almost erased the antiseptic smell that lingered around his clothes but Sherlock knew it had done nothing to erase the echoes of coughing and illness from being at work all day. 

“Shower,” Sherlock commanded without looking up. “Change your clothes. We’re going out.” 

“And by going out, you mean..?” 

“We’re going to dinner, where you will eat and I will not. I do not anticipate being chased, however, wear comfortable shoes. Jenny, as this assistant was known, had two restaurants that she favored and one bar. The current theories her coworkers have involve her just disappearing into thin air,” Sherlock paused to roll his eyes. “I’m hoping for something more exciting, but I know how you disapprove when I fantasize about murder.”

“You’re lucky I know that’s sarcasm,” John replied with a grin. 

“Shower,” Sherlock repeated, glancing down again at his slides. He would have to continue this particular vein of investigation when his roommate wasn’t home. He had seven experiments to conduct that he knew John would not approve of and at least two that were questionable. It was curious how Jennifer Thurman had left the research unfinished. From what he could tell by her work files and the brief time he’d spent breaking into her apartment, she was a fastidious employee with an exemplary work ethic. She seemed passionate about the fish she worked with, going so far as to have several exotic species in her home in complicated tanks that required monitoring. 

“You’re eating, too,” John said when he was halfway down the hallway. Sherlock didn’t even dignify that remark with a response.

***

Jennifer Thurman had the worst taste in food, John decided. He’d been starving after work but he left half his meal on his plate, picking at the remaining soggy fries and watching Sherlock from a booth in the corner. The tall detective stood at the host podium speaking with the slender young man on duty there. He was leaning close, flashing a dazzlingly brilliant smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up, and John could only imagine too well what Sherlock’s voice sounded like. He could almost guarantee Sherlock was saying something low and suggestive, which caused the young man to blush and offer up too much information. Something about the entire interaction had John bristling in his chair, ready to leave as soon as possible. 

Just when he’d been about to abandon his roommate and the table, Sherlock straightened and dropped the flirtatious facade. Whatever he said had the host cringing back away from him, and John felt a surge of pity for the kid as he knew too well what Sherlock’s insults could feel like. 

It annoyed John when Sherlock used people like that, but he’d also grown to appreciate watching his friend work. Sherlock wasn’t what anyone would refer to as traditionally handsome. He was tall, of course, and he worked his height to his advantage. His eyes tilted up in a way that made him look like a character straight out of Lord of the Rings. (He would, of course, be an elf while John was probably a hobbit.) Still, as a writer John could appreciate the tumble of dark curls that framed those intense, pale eyes and full, pouting lips. The host never stood a chance. 

“Are you finished? There’s nothing more to be gained here.” 

“What did you hope to find?” John prompted, shaken out of his musings by the realization that Sherlock had come back to the table. Although he was entirely through with the food, he didn’t like the hint of a sulk that edged Sherlock’s tone. He wasn’t in the mood for a late night of violin caterwauling or a tantrum. Sherlock leaned back in the booth, tapping two fingers on his lips in thought. He didn’t seem inclined to answer until John thought of another sort of question. “Tell me about her.” 

Sherlock’s lips twisted downward. “Mid thirties, single, dedicated to her work, which is apparent in that she often worked late and wouldn’t come here until the end of the evening shift. She ate alone in a booth and often read while she ate, according to Bryan, the host. Sometimes she took notes down on a legal pad- there are dozens in her apartment, some of which I reappropriated, but it seems she had a preoccupation with fairy tales. She had a clear, reasonable scientific mind from her research but she filled her personal time with ancient legends and nursery rhymes? I can’t fathom why.”

“Sometimes people need an escape?” John suggested. He started to spear another bite of food but thought better of it and pushed the plate away. He leaned forward. He considered making a ‘married to his work’ remark but it seemed cliche at this juncture in their friendship. Not everyone could be as dedicated to his career as Sherlock Holmes. 

“It might cause me to rethink the case ranking,” Sherlock said, and there was a smirking tilt to his lips that caused John to smile in response. “Maybe I should have labeled it a five-point-five. I think you are correct in one aspect.” 

“Oh?” John puffed up slightly, trying to keep the surprise out of his tone. “In what way?”

“Everyone,” Sherlock replied, “needs an escape.”

It would be the last that John would hear about the Jennifer Thurman disappearance for several days. 

***

“I guess I should be used to it when he does that, but it still somehow turns my stomach,” Lestrade said with a grimace. John hadn’t been paying attention, but he glanced up now to see what Sherlock was doing. He had his nose in a dead woman’s mouth. John frowned. 

“Sherlock, what-”

The detective straightened and took a step back from the body. “It’s quite simple, Lestrade, I don’t understand why you insist on wasting my time. Come on, John.” 

Without an explanation or waiting to see if John would follow or not, he strode out of the victim’s bedroom. John shrugged at Lestrade. “I should, um-”

“Yeah, yeah, go follow him,” Lestrade huffed, waving him off. He heard one of the other officers mutter something about a ‘good dog’ under his breath but John wasn’t in a fighting mood so he let it slide. Sherlock had his phone out and was already summoning an Uber by the time John made it outside. 

“Hey, what are you-”

“The smell was making me ill, I don’t know how you could stand it,” Sherlock drawled without even looking at John. He continued to tap away at his phone. 

“You want to fill me in? I wasn’t paying attention,” John admitted, feeling a little embarrassed. Usually he loved watching Sherlock work, but his mind had been occupied.

“Yes, I know. Apparently I’m only praiseworthy in-between girlfriends,” Sherlock replied, an edge of jealousy entering his tone. “She’s sleeping with her ex-boyfriend, by the way. I thought she would have told you by now it was over but since it’s not, you should ask her about it or at least make sure you’re using protection. Lestrade will arrive at the correct cause of death once he stops fixating on trying to make everything seem more interesting. She was murdered with a pufferfish.” Cool grey-green eyes glanced up at John. 

John’s jaw hung open. “How do you know that?”

“Lestrade asked us to look at what would seem like a routine poisoning save for the wound on the victim’s hand. The barbed shape should have been obvious to Hopkins, at least, as he is an avid fisherman, but as none of them ever bother to use the gelatinous mess that resides in their skulls, they didn’t ‘do the math’, as the phrase goes. The smell of brackish water was all over her skin. I hate the sea,” Sherlock finished, his mouth turning down in a sick expression. He looked down at his phone once more and then at the car approaching the curb. He motioned for John to go first. “My parents always used to vacation by the sea. The smell is appalling.”

John slid into the car, nodding at the driver. He waited until Sherlock had given instructions to the man before continuing in a low voice, “And the other thing?”

“Several things that I’m sure you would have thought of if you had been paying any sort of attention, the most recent of which is that you were supposed to hear from her last night regarding a potential date and she hasn’t contacted you. That one Instagram post was especially telling on her part,” Sherlock said. He was staring out the window as Center City passed them by. 

“You follow my girlfriends on Instagram?”

“Keep your head in the game, John. The pufferfish murder isn’t interesting on it’s own but there are several factors that could change that. We’ll need more data. First, we’ll need to find the actual crime scene.”

John huffed, frowning as he considered the possibility that his current lover was cheating on him. “Alright, what do you mean by actual crime scene?”

Sherlock glanced over at him before pulling out his phone to check the messages again. Something he saw on the screen caused him to smile. “She wasn’t killed in her bedroom, not with a wound on her hand, or did you notice the lack of tanks in her decor style? Most people would have just had her ingest the poison, however this person purposefully had her wound herself. If Dr. Thurman was involved, she might appreciate the similarities to Rapunzel. Sadly, our researcher is still missing and someone is murdering people with an illegal fish. Check your phone.”

John pulled out his phone and swore at the incoming message. “God dammit, Sherlock.”

Sherlock laughed. “It will be better for you in the long run. Are you going to be alright to accompany me or should I send you home?”

“I’m fine,” John sighed, secretly seething that he’d just been dumped via text message. 

The car was pulling up to the Italian Market curb. Sherlock bustled him out, which was fine because the too-clean smell of the car coupled with reading his texts had been making him feel queasy. The detective ushered him down the street, passing shop windows with live rabbits and birds or freshly made cheeses, until they came to one tiny fish market. Unlike the outside, which was slightly dirty and smelled strongly of urine, the inside of the shop was clean and almost pleasant except Sherlock’s nose was still curled up in distaste. 

“The smell,” he murmured, by way of an explanation.

“I’ve seen you eat fish before,” John replied, pretty sure he was telling the truth. 

“Cooked fish doesn’t smell like raw fish,” Sherlock complained. John was about to point out the one case they’d had that involved sushi, but they were interrupted by a small, round woman behind the counter. 

“Mr. Holmes!” she said joyfully. She wasn’t much older than John and her kind face had many laugh lines around the eyes. Her dark brown hair, which was pulled back in a tight bun, had a few flecks of silver woven in. “Should I be happy to see you? It’s been a slow day, I could use a good story.”

“I don’t have much information for you at the moment, but in time it could be a very intriguing fish tale,” Sherlock said and John did a double take at the pun. The woman laughed. She leaned her arms up on the counter, motioning them over. 

“And this is your sidekick, Dr. Watson,” the woman said. “I’ve read a few of your stories, very entertaining. Sherlock solved something for my cousin, Angelo, a few years back. He’s a good boy, this kid. I’m Donna.” She offered John a slightly damp hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m John,” he replied. 

“What can I do for you?” she asked, looking between them expectantly. Sherlock grimaced and pulled his phone out, tapping it for a second before twisting it around to show her. 

“What sort of fish would cause this?” he asked, and she frowned, head tilting to the side as she examined the photo of the dead woman’s hand with narrow eyes, tucking her tongue in her cheek. 

“You already have some ideas?” 

“I do,” Sherlock replied, and he slid his phone back into his pocket. “It’s not your sort of stock but you know fish better than anyone.” Donna nodded slowly, making a sucking sound between her tongue and her teeth before she answered. 

“Gimme a few days,” she said. “I’ll ask around.”

When they were back on the street, Sherlock again started to herd John along, with a large hand pressed between his shoulder blades. It made John slightly self-conscious as it was still fairly warm for the season and his shirt was sticking to him with perspiration, but he let it slide as it allowed him to be just a tiny bit closer to the other man. “No Uber?”

“It was making you ill. You’re also frustrated about your break-up and you prefer to walk when you’re upset,” Sherlock said. John was touched at the slight consideration. 

“What happens next?” John asked. Sherlock gave him a brilliant smile. 

“Several possibilities,” he replied. “We shall just have to wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please read the tags. **
> 
> Half-beta'd, written in Philadelphia instead of London, one because I'm American and two because I'm obsessed with my old home town and often liked to imagine the boys there back in 2015 when I started posting the original version of this story.

Sherlock was not in the mood for John to have found a replacement girlfriend so quickly, however the moans that were drifting their way down the stairs indicated his opinion had not been taken into consideration. Unless, of course, the previous one had decided to grant John some kind of physical good-bye present, but the red shoe on the stairs, discarded in the heat of the moment, was the wrong size for that to be the case. 

He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. 

John usually didn’t bring his partners back to Baker Street until he was ready for Sherlock to send them packing. Not to mention it was the middle of the afternoon, which seemed inconsiderate as Sherlock might have returned at any moment. Of course, Sherlock wasn’t opposed to participating in recreational physical activities at this particular time of day but it seemed poor form not to have at least sent a warning text.

Perhaps John… wanted to be heard? 

Apparently, John was just as blasphemous in bed as he was in his everyday life. (Jesus, Sherlock!)

Sherlock tilted his head to the side in consideration. Did John like that sort of thing?

Image: John on his back, crumpled white sheets, mid-afternoon sun streaming through the window, glinting off of sandy blond hair. Perspiration on brow, eyes closed-

“Oh God!” 

With a small gasp, Sherlock shook himself out of his momentary lapse in control, but not before needing to adjust himself slightly. 

He didn’t need this type of distraction today. There were still experiments to be conducted with regard to the missing researcher and his brother was becoming intolerably impatient at the lack of results. (Lazy, indulgent, hateful brother, get it yourself.) Not that it ever actually mattered what Mycroft thought, but he’d started texting at an alarming frequency and it was extremely annoying. Sherlock sighed and went to his desk where he started to pick up his violin, only to stroke it once (sexual innuendo was so childish) and put it back down. 

Another loud noise from the upstairs bedroom had him cringing once more.

Sherlock didn’t actually have an issue with sex. Of course, he rarely indulged in it anymore, but there had been a time- 

He shook his head. Things were reaching an enthusiastic climax and he was not interested in being caught eavesdropping on John’s romantic conquests. (John probably would like that.) He stalked down the stairs and out of the apartment. There were other things he could do with his life today that didn’t revolve around eavesdropping on John Watson getting laid. 

Two hours later, he was breaking into a certain missing researcher’s apartment. Mt. Airy was one of the more charming suburbs of the city and certainly more affordable than living alone in Center City. It was also easier to climb in someone’s window without anyone noticing since the streets weren’t nearly as busy.

The rooms were small and dark. Dr. Thurman was a minimalist as far as decor went. There was an old collection of vinyl records (inherited, deceased parent, nineteen-seventies rock suggests father or father-type), a few neat looking books (non-fiction, not a pleasure reader) and a small collection of CDs. Judging from the decade they spanned the CDs were from habit, kept from college most likely. Furniture was simple, practical and fairly new, probably purchased at Ikea and assembled alone.

Dr. Thurman was rarely home, ergo, she didn’t have many personal articles to observe, except the seemingly random tanks of fish that cluttered the tables in her living room. A few of the creatures hadn’t survived their owner being missing. One especially vibrant blue fish floated close to the surface. Sherlock retrieved a ziploc bag from the small kitchen and scooped it out, slipping it into his pocket. He’d noticed similar scales on a few of her slides. It would, at least, make a mildly entertaining test subject. Mycroft would have to send people to get the remaining living fish. Out of pity, Sherlock attempted to feed them as best he could. 

Observing Dr. Thurman’s life, Sherlock felt a slightly uncomfortable echo to his own. Her personal life had been lonely and dedicated to her research. Of course, Sherlock had John but he would only be a temporary companion. Sooner or later, the need to marry and reproduce would claim Sherlock’s only friend. If he disappeared, would anyone solve his case as he was for Dr. Thurman?

He was bending down to look under the generic tan Ikea sofa that was shoved into one corner of her living room. Nothing had been disturbed in a long time, the dust alone proved that, however he was sure the small moleskine notebook wedged between the far leg and the wall had not been there on his previous excursion. He frowned and reached under, tugging a few times before freeing it. He brushed off his sleeve, about to peek into the book, when he heard voices outside so he shoved the notebook into his pocket and looked for a more appropriate exit than the first floor window. As someone who appeared to be the landlord entered the front door, Sherlock was smoothly and quietly slipping out of the back. 

Just another day in the suburbs. The thought made Sherlock smirk.

John’s text came in just as Sherlock walked back through the doors of his home. 

[Out with a friend, be home later.] 

So, John had decided to leave his bedroom at some point today. Nothing interesting, probability indicated that he was having a meal with his bed partner and walking them home. The enthusiasm expressed in the earlier encounter suggested there might even be a round two. 

Fine. Sherlock had work to do and didn’t feel like being disturbed. 

He slid the moleskin and soggy bag of fish out of his pocket, placing the fish in the refrigerator (top shelf, annoy John, smirk) before investigating the notebook more thoroughly. Her handwriting was neat and consistent, which made her notes easier to read. Everything about this woman seemed methodical, done with purpose and logic. It made her disappearance all the more sinister. 

The notebook held new information on a compound that he’d already started working on. It made him wonder exactly what Mycroft needed this woman back for. He had theories about biochemical warfare, but that had never been his brother’s style. He pondered the possibilities as he continued his work, occasionally referencing the new notes. In the middle there was an intricate equation that captured his attention. It trailed off at the end and as Sherlock turned the page to see the continuation of it, a thin piece of metal sliced into his finger. 

He swore and pulled back, dropping the notebook and spilling part of the compound he was working on. He sighed, reaching for a nearby towel. He didn’t want John to complain about the mess or touch it, just in case it was contaminated. 

The compound was sticky and he noted gloves would have been a practical choice, however he was often careless with his body (John would have disapproved). He didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing them until he noticed his blood was smearing onto the rag and into the mixture. For such a small blade, it had managed to penetrate-

Penetrate-

Quickly.

He gasped, but there was something- 

There was something blocking his - 

He couldn’t breathe, dropping the rag and trying not to panic. It’s just, the blockage seemed to be moving and now he was able to force air through his - 

That wasn’t right. He spun, looking for anything he could see his reflection in. He was getting lightheaded. He would pass out in just a few seconds if he didn’t- 

Decorative mirror, next to the door. New, Mrs. Hudson must have added it. His reflection - red, clearly lacking oxygen- blood under his ears? No, hallucination. He brought a hand up to touch the tears that had ripped open along his throat. He pulled his fingers away, making an unrecognizable noise through the- 

Vertical slits. Familiar shape. But from where? 

Didn’t matter. Lack of oxygen. Collapse, head pain and darkness.

***

John was whistling on his way up the steps, feeling completely relaxed. He hadn’t meant to be so late, but his flirtatious late afternoon lunch had turned into a little more, keeping him entertained until well past dinner. He’d promised to text, she’d given him a sweet kiss. All in all, it was a pleasant encounter that left him refreshed and ready to deal with whatever his roommate could throw at him.

The living room was tidy. Too tidy. 

John frowned and entered the small kitchen, staring at the clean table. He could smell bleach on the air, which was unusual because Sherlock was not known for cleaning up after himself. He opened the refrigerator. 

“Fuck, really?” John rolled his eyes at the dead fish on the first shelf.

“Experiment,” came the hoarse answer from behind him. John spun, trying not to grin. Even though all the lights had been on, he’d assumed he was alone. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to get so involved in a case that when he left to chase down a clue he left all the lights on, so it was a nice surprise that he was home. The smile slowly faded as he took in the haggard appearance of his friend. “It’s hardly the most unusual thing you’ve found on that shelf.”

“Yeah, we’re going to have a long talk about the toes in the drawer. You alright?” John asked. He took a step towards Sherlock, who immediately countered with a step backwards. The detective was wearing an extremely creased shirt, with two of the top buttons undone, and equally rumpled black pants. His curls were a frizzy halo around an almost greenish pale face. All of that would have been troubling, but between his painfully scratchy voice and the fact that an unseasonable blue scarf was wound around his neck, John was downright concerned. 

“Just caught something,” Sherlock muttered, taking in John’s appearance just as thoroughly. “Good afternoon?”

“Yeah, but for fuck’s sake, don’t speak,” John said. He reached up and rubbed his own neck empathetically. “Are you cold? Is there anything I can-”

“Nothing you can do,” Sherlock replied quickly. “Just came out to say goodnight.”

“Yeah, of course. Get some rest,” John said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” Sherlock merely nodded before going to his bedroom. John heard the door close and for all that he was not superstitious and had the courage of a soldier, there was something ominous about the noise. He shook himself out of it before taking himself off to bed.

***

“And that’s when the pastor realized that Sherlock was only posing as the baby’s father,” John said, laughing. Kelly gave him a sweet smile, but she hadn’t laughed and John was sure that was one of his best Sherlock stories. Other than that, it seemed to be going pretty well with her. She was smart, funny and a pleasure to be around.

“It’s nice that you two spend so much time together,” she said kindly. John nodded, taking a sip of his drink. 

“He keeps it interesting. A few days ago I found some dead goldfish in the fridge, next to the toes, of course,” John joked. He sighed. “And he’s taken to wearing this scarf, around his throat. I’m a little worried-”

“Oh, um, sorry, I just, I need the restroom. It’s an emergency,” Kelly said, apologetically. She took her bag and started towards the back of the restaurant very quickly. Well, he’d told her not to order that for dinner in a place like a bar. He took out his phone and checked for messages from Sherlock. Nothing. John’s shoulders drooped. He’d really hoped there would be something interesting going on tonight, not that he wasn’t enjoying his date. 

A few minutes later, a fresh pint plopped down next to John’s plate. He glanced up from his empty message folder into the bright green eyes of a gorgeous redheaded waitress. 

“You might want to stop mentioning the roommate,” the young woman advised him. “I don’t think you’ve blown your shot yet, but one of the other girls overheard her in the bathroom calling her friend and she said something about potentially sneaking out the back.”

“Oh. Um, okay, thanks. Wait, why?” John asked, but he saw Kelly making her way back again. 

“Just a hunch,” the redhead whispered, winking before she went back to checking her tables. Kelly slid back into her seat, crossing her legs. John hadn’t noticed before how pinched her face was, it made her look mean. Still, he leaned forward and flashed what he hoped would be a charming smile.

“So, Kelly. Tell me more about you,” John prompted. A bright smile flashed across Kelly’s face before she launched into a supernaturally boring story about a road trip she’d recently taken with a few of her girl friends. He was thankful for the extra alcohol as he tried to stay focused on the names of Kelly’s friends, which all sounded very similar, and the breakdown of what everyone wore or who drank what. John didn’t mention Sherlock again, and he added a big tip for the helpful waitress, but he also didn’t go home with his new girlfriend, even though she offered. 

He promised to call, and he would, but he wasn’t as excited about it as he had been a few hours prior. 

“Sherlock!” John called, jogging up the steps. The detective was once more at the kitchen table, this time with his laptop open instead of a microscope in front of him. A raggedy little moleskine journal was sitting next to him, open to some complicated looking set of numbers. “What are you working on?” 

“Nothing much. That case for Mycroft.” 

John stopped in the doorway, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. He went to the refrigerator again for the water pitcher, taking a glass out of the cupboard. It was an excuse, though. He wanted a better look at Sherlock. The out of place scarf was still wrapped securely around Sherlock’s throat, but he was wearing a nicer shirt and pants, which suggested he’d actually left the apartment at some point during the day. He had a silky looking blue robe over his clothes. There was more, though, that concerned John. 

Sherlock had always been thin, but now he looked downright gaunt. He wondered if his friend had actually eaten anything in the last few days. Shadows haunted the skin under his eyes and along the hollows of his cheeks. Whatever Mycroft was demanding of him, it wasn’t going well. Sherlock’s pale skin had taken on an even more anemic, blue-looking tone, and John noted that he was moving strangely as he took a slide out of the microscope. Usually, Sherlock had a dancerly sort of grace in his manner, but even as he closed the book so John couldn’t read what was inside, he seemed stiff and stilted. 

“Is that blood?” John asked, staring at the brownish edges of the notebook.

“It’s mine. Papercut,” Sherlock replied. He tapped a few more keys on his laptop. 

Guilty, John decided. Sherlock looked guilty of something. John crossed his arms over his chest, lips twisting thoughtfully to the side. “That’s an awful lot of blood for a papercut.” 

“It’s fine. It was a few days ago.” Sherlock’s pale eyes glanced over at John and then stared more intently, as though he were reading something. “Unsuccessful night?”

Sherlock was on the defense, then, John decided. He’d seen Sherlock deduce a good many impossible things but he was fairly certain there was no way he could definitively know that John’s night had gone poorly, other than the fact he was home early and even that was a stretch. John forced a smile and shook his head. 

“Opposite, actually. We’re really hitting it off.” 

Sherlock sent John an almost comical look of disbelief. He turned back to the laptop and clicked a few more times. 

“I mean, I’m not getting any younger,” John continued. Sherlock froze, fingers hovering above the keyboard. John shrugged. “I think she could be, you know, a really nice person to settle down with. It’s early, sure, but she’s sweet and friendly. She asked about you, actually.”

“Did she?” Sherlock drawled without looking away from his research.

“Yeah, I told her you weren’t feeling well. She asked how you were doing,” John lied. He opened the refrigerator again and took out a beer, moving past Sherlock to go back to the living room and sit in his chair. He had a book he’d been reading and he wasn’t quite tired yet.

“Yes, I’m sure she cares a great deal how I’m feeling,” was the sarcastic reply. There was some other vague mumbling, and John was about to tune Sherlock out, but a new question occurred to him.

“Do you need any help with the case? It doesn’t look like it’s going well,” John said, twisting in his chair to look behind him into the kitchen. Sherlock huffed and snapped the laptop shut. 

“There is some progress,” Sherlock allowed. He gazed back at John with an unfathomable look in his eyes before exhaling, exhausted. “It seems she may have suffered from a- a disorder of sorts, possibly a side effect of what she was researching.”

“Is it anything I might have heard of? I am a doctor, you know.” 

Sherlock shook his head and left the table, coming into the room to sit across from John in his own metal and leather chair. “I don’t have enough data yet. Her ability to record the symptoms was inhibited by the… disorder.”

“You know I’m here for you, though, should you need me. You’re not going to catch it, are you? I know you’ve been messing around with her work, it’s not-”

“No, John. It’s not something that you’ll need to worry about.” Sherlock gave him a tight smile. “Aren’t you at work early tomorrow? Shouldn’t you-”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve been so busy these last few days we haven’t been able to catch up.” John returned the smile, taking a sip of his beer. He felt more comfortable here, with Sherlock, than he had with Kelly at the bar, and Sherlock had far more entertaining stories. “Unless, you need to rest. You have been ill.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please read the tags. **
> 
> Half-beta'd, written in Philadelphia instead of London, one because I'm American and two because I'm obsessed with my old home town and often liked to imagine the boys there back in 2015 when I started posting the original version of this story.

Sherlock was, in fact, not fine. 

He was lacking focus and, if the pattern persisted, surely he would descend into madness. The rash on his arms was continuing to itch and he felt mildly oily as he’d been avoiding the shower lately. Every time he got wet, the wounds on his throat would erupt into a bloody mess, although each time it seemed less and less.

He couldn’t bring himself to even consider what that meant. 

“Stand closer,” Sherlock hissed, not looking up at John to make sure he followed the instructions. A quick scratch at his left arm and he was back to wiggling his lock picking kit in the hole of an ancient kitchen door. 

“So sorry, it’s not every day we break into a crime scene,” John muttered angrily. He shifted from one leg to another but it didn’t give Sherlock any more cover than he already had. “I skipped that chapter in the ‘How to Deal with an Asshole Roommate’ manual. Guess I’ll never know the appropriate distance between bodies when you’re covering someone picking locks.” 

“Don’t worry, it will be covered in a future lecture, now hush,” Sherlock said, angling one tool a little more. Finally, the old lock popped open and Sherlock twisted the knob to let them inside. “It will come right after the chapter on shutting up while said roommate is working.” 

John’s already tense expression soured further. “You would hate it if I were silent. Then there’d be no one to stroke that massive ego you have.” 

“I’m surprised you even had the time to accompany me today, what with your newest conquest waiting to-” Sherlock said with narrowed eyes. 

“Finishing that sentence is beneath you,” John snapped. 

“Shut up, I need to work.” Sherlock started a cursory investigation of the kitchen. He’d really expected Lestrade to have tied up this miniscule murder sooner. 

“Why are we breaking into this house again? Couldn’t Lestrade have just, I don’t know, given you the key?” John continued complaining. Sherlock glared at him. 

“If you have somewhere else to be, by all means,” Sherlock said with a sweeping, dismissive gesture. “Lestrade didn’t want to admit that he still needed me, so I’m taking matters into my own hands, so to speak. The killer is still at large and I have other cases that require my full attention.”

“Like this thing you’re doing for your brother that you won’t tell me about,” John said, folding his arms over his chest.  
“Precisely.”

“So, what, I thought you said she wasn’t murdered here?” John asked, watching Sherlock get down on the ground to inspect under the kitchen sink. 

“I said she wasn’t murdered in her bedroom. I never said there wasn’t another place in the home where she could have met her demise.” Sherlock took out a swab and ran it along the rim of the sink. “I have my suspicions that the fish was kept here, perhaps by the husband under the pretense of making a romantic dinner, before it was put to it’s more sinister purpose.” 

“Well, where else would you keep a fish?”

“It doesn’t have to be alive, John. The wound could have been a distraction, although I very much doubt that it was,” Sherlock replied. Then, he froze, and a knowing look took over his expression. “Or…”

He swirled out of the room. 

John let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and then followed along.

The upstairs bathroom was a putrid shade of pink that reminded John of the chalky taste of Pepto Bismol. From the tiles to the paint on the wall, everything was bright and rosy. Sherlock was bent over the bathtub, examining the grout. “This has been recently cleaned with cheap bleach and extremely thoroughly. The smell is still fresh.” Sherlock took a pair of tweezers out of his pocket and picked up something small that John couldn’t see, putting it in a plastic bag before placing it all in his pocket. “We should try to speak to her husband.” 

“Her husband?” John asked. 

“Yes, she was married.” Sherlock turned to give him a disappointed stare. “It’s not as though you were paying attention when we looked at the body, but she was wearing a wedding ring.” 

John glared at him, having had enough of being called stupid for one day. “How do you know it wasn’t a wife?” 

“Wedding picture, downstairs, over the fireplace. How you even get through the day is astonishing,” Sherlock said. His demeanor was calm but the angry flash in his eyes clearly hinted at trying to bait John into a quarrel. 

“Fuck off,” John said. 

“Clever, as always.” Sherlock started to leave, heading down the stairs. He paused to scratch angrily at the abysmal rash on his arms again, which caused John to knock into him and nearly send them both tumbling downwards. “Watch where-”

“Here,” John said, taking hold of Sherlock’s arm and tugging up the fabric of his sleeve. “Let me see. You’ve been an absolute dick since this started.” 

Sherlock grumbled but John’s quick, precise hands were already rolling up the sleeve on Sherlock’s jacket. John was about to scold him for the redness of the rash and not speaking up about it sooner, but he frowned.

“Did you- Are those fish scales?” John asked, eyes looking up at Sherlock in concern. It was Sherlock’s turn to frown, and he glanced down.

In the midst of raw, overly scratched skin, there was a speckling of blue scales, similar to the ones on the fish he’d found in Dr. Thurman’s apartment. Hurriedly, he pulled his sleeve down to cover them. “Um, nothing. It’s- I must have, um, just not washed up properly. Forget it.”

“Alright,” John said slowly, looking over Sherlock, taking in his appearance. His close observation made Sherlock uncomfortable, but he attempted to look defiant anyway, as if daring John to disagree with him on something.

A key was turning in the lock. 

“Go, back through the kitchen,” Sherlock whispered, pulling his sleeve down and hurrying down the stairs. 

“Wait, what?” John asked, following quickly. 

“The husband still lives here and I’d rather not have to explain-” Sherlock’s words were cut off as he opened the kitchen door to Lestrade standing there, gun pulled. He grimaced. “Lestrade.”

***

“I ought to arrest you,” Lestrade threatened tiredly, glaring down at the two of them from where he stood behind his desk. “I expect this kind of thing out of Sherlock, but John, seriously? Breaking and entering, tampering with evidence-”

“Is it still evidence if the husband is actively living there? Sherlock even said that the tub had been recently bleached,” John asked, feeling lightheaded and giddy. The adrenalyn was wearing off. He started to laugh before smothering it down. “Isn’t that kind of suspicious?” 

Lestrade scowled at him like an angry father. “It’s a crime to clean a bathtub in your own home? Guess I’ll have to arrest him, too.”

John made the mistake of catching Sherlock’s gaze and this time he did laugh. The tension that had been between them this morning was gone and neither of them were repentant. “I wouldn’t know, I make Sherlock take care of bathroom chores.”

“Do they actually get done?” Lestrade asked.

John shrugged flippantly.

Sherlock snickered.

“You’re lucky that Dr. Michaelson doesn’t want to press charges,” Lestrade continued. He sat down in his chair, leaning forward so his arms were resting on his desk. He’d been busy recently with several investigations and, judging from the new lines on his face, they’d been taking a toll. “You can’t just go wandering into homes at random. I can’t bring you on cases if you can’t be trusted.”

“Meanwhile, you’ve got no leads and I’ve got several lines of inquiry that could prove fruitful, but not if I’m being kept here,” Sherlock said, smirking for John’s benefit. Lestrade huffed and then sighed, and then groaned. Finally, he pointed a finger at Sherlock. 

“I mean it, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. 

“Of that I have no doubt. It’s hardly the first apartment I’ve broken into this week,” Sherlock drawled. John laughed, but then he realized that Sherlock had gone without him. He whipped around to look at his friend who just shrugged. 

“Get out,” Lestrade snapped. “Just- I don’t want to know. Get out.” Sherlock stood and swept dramatically out of the room, leaving John to follow, but John wasn’t quick enough. 

“John,” Lestrade said, and the no-nonsense tone in his voice was enough to have John pausing. “I’m not kidding. Get him to stop working against us or he’s out of cases.” John just shrugged.

“Have you ever tried to get Sherlock to do anything other than what he wants?” John asked.

Lestrade folded his hands in front of him and shook his head. “He listens to you, whether you believe it or not. He loves the cases, John. I don’t want to take that away from him but I will if he can’t follow simple rules.” 

John nodded and it was clear then that he was dismissed. He assumed Sherlock abandoned him for being too slow, but he was leaning on the brick wall outside, tapping two fingers against his lips in thought. 

“He wanted to discourage me from continuing to do the exact thing he wants me to do, which is solve the case,” Sherlock said. He rolled his eyes. “I’ll never understand-”

“There are rules, Sherlock. You can’t just walk into random strangers’ homes. What if they’d had security cameras or worse, they’d been home and shot you?” John tried to sound as stern as Lestrade but he wasn’t managing it. After all, Sherlock’s arrogance was one of the many traits that made him so magnetic. He looked around and then pulled Sherlock very close so they could speak quietly without being overheard. “So, what other homes have you broken into this week?” 

“The case I’m working for Mycroft required additional data. It wasn’t something I could bring you along on,” Sherlock told him. He took in John’s expression, which was probably frustrated, before flashing an impish smile and adding, “Besides, you were otherwise occupied.”

He gave John a knowing look until it dawned on him exactly what Sherlock was implying. John blushed a scarlet red up to his ears and swore. “Oh God, you heard?” Sherlock tried not to laugh. “Oh God.” Sherlock laughed harder. “STOP!” 

“That’s not what you were saying the other day,” Sherlock snickered, scratching absently at his arm. John grinned.

“So, where are we off to now?” he asked, watching Sherlock intently. “More investigating?” 

“Not at all,” Sherlock murmured, and John noticed they hadn’t moved back despite Sherlock’s scratching. He gave in to the urge to glance down at Sherlock’s full lips for just a second. “I’ve got a few chemical experiments to conduct with the swabs we retrieved from the bathroom and, if the vibration pattern is anything to go off of, you’ve received five text messages at least, two of which were likely to be from work needing a shift covered, but at least three of them are the cause of your ‘Oh, Gods’.” Sherlock was smiling but it didn’t quite touch his eyes and he looked away as he finished. 

“Are you sure? I’m here, if you need me,” John told him, trying to catch his gaze again. 

“No, no, I’m sure. There’s nothing to be gained until the results of the tests are back,” Sherlock insisted. “Have fun.”

Without waiting for John to reply, he was off walking down the street in the direction of their home. John sighed and then checked his phone- two from work, three from Kelly. 

[Where r u? Xoxo]

[come over if you’re off! Xoxo]

[are you coming ;-p]

***

Bile rose in Sherlock’s throat and he felt the urge to empty his already vacant stomach. The rash, by the time he returned to Baker Street, was more than just a few blue spots. It had spread in an iridescent blue bloom from his wrist to his elbow that would have been beautiful if it hadn’t signaled a progress of his strange symptoms.

“Impossible,” he breathed, flexing his hand and twisting his arm to look at the glittering scales. As he exhaled the word, he took note of his absurdly dry throat. He was parched. He was never parched, but now he felt as though he could drink an entire gallon of water and still be thirsty. He rolled up his sleeves, preparing to work, but not before he helped himself to several glasses of water and removed his ridiculously warm scarf. A similar itching to his arms had started to make itself irritatingly known between his toes, so he kicked his shoes off as well. 

He retrieved Dr. Thurman’s moleskine from it’s hiding place and flipped it to a page that wasn’t drenched in his blood. It was near the end of her writing, just before she’d disappeared, and she’d been recording symptom progression of a test subject. She wrote of the initial infection (note, did not record actually infecting the subject, high possibility mixed with blood), followed by the eruption of wounds on the throat followed by an odd colored rash on the arms and legs with a noticeable increased intake of water. If Sherlock’s own symptoms continued in the same way, it appeared he would take on more physical traits and mutations. 

Not if he stopped it first.

He was a chemist, not a marine biologist, but there had to be something he could do to further her research before whatever she meant by ‘total lower fusion’ happened. It sounded unpleasant.

He emptied his pockets, holding one of the evidence bags aloft and examining it more thoroughly than he had been able to with John standing over his shoulder.

A single blue scale which matched the rash that was growing on his skin and the blue fish that floated in Dr. Thurman’s apartment, found at the dead Viola Michaelson’s apartment.

***

[You want anything for dinner? - JW]

John put his phone down on the small table next to Kelly’s futon to wait for Sherlock’s reply. He shouldn’t have been thinking of his roommate at a time like this, but he was. Stretched out next to his new girlfriend in her studio apartment having just received a spectacular blow job, he should be too blissed out to even think of what Sherlock needed for dinner. However, as sweet as Kelly could be, there were some things about her that made John uncomfortable. The apparent moratorium on Sherlock stories was bizarre to him. Their work (yes, Sherlock, it was both of their work as long as John was able to tag along) was a huge part of John’s life. Why wasn’t she interested in that? If the relationship continued, was she going to insist he stop assisting his friend on cases entirely? 

John frowned, but Kelly hadn’t noticed. She’d launched into a very boring story about a friend’s wedding and trying to find the perfect dress online.

If John continued to date her, and they eventually got married, would Sherlock still be allowed in his life? Would he be able to be best man at John’s wedding?

Kelly still hadn’t noticed John’s preoccupation, so while he had been half-listening, he’d started to look back on the events of the day. The tension that morning with Sherlock had been high. It seemed they were both angry at one another but for no real reason John could pin down. In the end, they’d wound up laughing together at Lestrade’s frustration, but it still felt strange. Like Sherlock was angry or jealous of something. And then there was the mystery rash - John wasn’t a dermatologist but Sherlock had scratched himself raw. Hopefully it wasn’t contagious. He’d have to pester Sherlock into looking into it and probably do some research of his own. 

“John?” Kelly asked. John snapped back to reality.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“You weren’t paying attention, were you?” she pouted, trying to look cute. He found it a little annoying.

“I think I’m just really tired,” he said apologetically. It wasn’t a lie. “You wore me out.” 

“Too worn out for round two?” she asked, snaking her hand over his chest. 

“You know, I think I might be. I spent most of the day with the police and that takes a toll,” John joked, trying to bring up Sherlock again to see if she would soften towards him eventually. The ugly, jealous expression that passed over her features wasn’t encouraging.

“Oh. I see,” she said, trying to look friendly but failing miserably. “Well, call me?” 

“Sure,” John promised. He kissed her and started to get dressed, feeling a little bit as though he were being thrown out. He didn’t really mind, though. He still hadn’t heard from The Great Detective so he figured he’d go ask about dinner in person.

***

The house had fallen silent while Sherlock worked until the tinkling of broken glass rang out, followed by a rare and quietly uttered, “Damn.”

There was more quiet while he tried to scrub up the spill, lips turned down in a disappointed frown. Even with gloves, getting wet was unavoidable. There was another ‘damn’, followed by a panicked ‘fuck’ as the wounds on his throat opened once more and then the sounds of his bare feet running towards the bathroom. Each step was a slap of flesh on the hardwood floors. Every sound seemed too loud and too quiet all at once.

He closed the door behind him. Sherlock didn’t believe in gods, but if he did there would’ve been several thanks to them that the compound had only really gotten on him when it spilled, and that John wasn’t home so he couldn’t also be infected with whatever this was.

The pain radiating from the cerulean rash on his arm was more than a little disconcerting. The fact that it had now spread and was causing pain to the other arm as well was incredibly disconcerting.

He looked in the mirror and gulped, trying to get a grip on his racing heart and shortness of breath. 

His core reflection, the face that he’d grown accustomed to when he did look at himself, was the same. He saw his sculpted chocolate curls, his gray-green eyes that were so pale their startled most people (but never John), and his full, pouting lips. On the downside, there were some things that were not the same. Blue scales matching those on his arms had begun to form along his sharp cheekbones. He was also finding it difficult to breathe again thanks to the wounds that he was now forced to acknowledge for what they really were- gills. (The symptom checklist was proving horrifyingly correct.) 

Impossible. This was ridiculously impossible. 

The chemical compound should not have accelerated the progress. Oblong growths erupted out of his forearms around the same time his instinct kicked in. If he didn’t hurry, he might suffocate. He flicked on the taps, filling his bathtub with water as quickly as he could. His bespoke trousers ended up in a crumpled puddle on the floor, followed shortly by his silk boxers. This was not happening. His rational, logical mind was not going to accept what was happening, even as his body changed before his very eyes. He slipped into the tub and submerged his head under water. He mouthed ‘fuck’ one more time as instant relief claimed him. There wasn’t much time to rejoice, his being able to breathe again (breathing, underwater, impossible) as nausea spread through his torso. 

Total. Lower. Fusion.

Sherlock groaned, pain engulfing his twisting limbs that were blending together, growing scales, morphing and melting until they formed a strange, hypnotic tail. It slapped the tile flooring as he struggled. He was too tall for the bathtub already and this added several feet (hysterically nervous laugh) to his body. Questions swirled in his mind. What exactly was the benefit of these experiments? Why had the government been involved?

Most importantly - what had happened to the previous test subject?

Whatever was really going on, Sherlock thought, staring at the ceiling through the water that was still filling over his face, he couldn’t involve the police or even his own brother anymore. He didn’t enjoy the idea of being chopped up on a slab in Baskervilles, becoming the experiment rather than conducting them. 

Downstairs, the door opened and closed. His heart sank as every heavy footstep reminded him of the other person that lived in the house. The other person who could never, ever find out.

"Sherlock!" John's voice called through the house. Sherlock couldn't hear the exact words, but he heard the sound. Had he locked the bathroom door? Why didn't he remember?  
Was this that shock thing that people were always going on about? He lifted his head just above the water so he could hear John.

“Sherlock? Everything okay?” John shouted again. He’d stopped at the corner store for a few things, but the mess on the table looked a little toxic so he went back and put them in the living room on the coffee table. He huffed in irritation at the mess. “Sherlock!” 

“In here!” Sherlock called from the bathroom. He sat up a little more to turn the taps off. He deduced from the way the lock was twisted that he had remembered to lock the door. Stranger and stranger, he also realized that he could breathe above water. He groaned. “I’m having a bath.” 

He could almost hear John frown from the other side of the wall. “Again? Are you okay?”

Sherlock's monstrous tail twitched, splashing water. "There was a bit of an accident with the last experiment and I need to soak. Don't touch the mess in the kitchen, I'll get it when I'm through."

"Definitely wasn't planning on it," John muttered under his breath. His hand touched the knob, although he didn't twist. "You sound strange, are you alright? Did you hurt yourself? I could-" Uncomfortable pause. "I could look at you, if you need me to."

"No!" Too enthusiastic. Sherlock needed to keep calm. He exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes while he tried to think. "No, I'm fine, John, I assure you. Put the groceries in the refrigerator and go get carry out. No sense in us cooking until I've fully sterilized the kitchen, just to be sure. Go! Take my card!"

John hesitated. His own instincts were screaming that something was wrong with Sherlock. “Look, Sherlock, I know you’re a private person but that’s the same line of crap you gave me when you accidentally injected yourself with that new strain of Ebola, and after seeing that rash earlier-”

“Are you never going to forget that?” Sherlock complained, leaning his head back on the cool porcelain basin. His voice sounded strained. He didn’t know how to get out of the tub. He didn’t know if his body would return to him- it seemed unlikely. Still, he couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. “John, I mean it. I’m fine.” 

John huffed, irritated and still worried. The sound of something heavy thudding to the floor on the other side of the door did nothing to make him feel better. "Sherlock-"

“I’m fine!” Sherlock shouted, patience wearing thin. He’d managed to haul himself out of the bathroom and hurt his rear end which now had a large fin growing out of it. Previously, to get rid of his gills, he’d noticed a correlation between getting wet and them opening. Perhaps if he dried off - “Go, John. I’m fine.” 

There was a pause as John considered what he should do. Kelly hadn’t left him in a great mood and now Sherlock was dismissing him again, the camaraderie they’d had only a few hours ago nowhere to be found. He hated that he was more upset with Sherlock than he was with Kelly. “Great. Whatever. I’ll be back in an hour and if you’re not out of there, I’ll break the damn door down.” 

Sherlock listened as John stormed out of the apartment, stomping with irritation, only to have to immediately double back and put the groceries away before leaving again. The detective, who noticed a correlation between his not being able to breathe and starting to dry out, was left towelling off his massive tail in silence. 

When John made his way back, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, clad in fresh pyjama bottoms and a clean tee shirt. His bony knees were drawn up tight against his chest. His scarf was back to being wound around his throat despite being in lounge clothes but, if John noticed, he didn’t say anything. Sherlock kept his mouth firmly shut as John placed the bag with their dinner in it on the coffee table. 

“How was your soak?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t reply, he just shrugged. Sighing, John went into the kitchen in search of clean forks. The room smelled like bleach and cleaning chemicals and the microscope that had cluttered one end for the last several days was nowhere to be seen. “Thanks for cleaning up the mess, Sherlock. I appreciate it.” 

"Not a problem," Sherlock replied. Inside, John cringed. It wasn’t like Sherlock to tidy once and now to have done it twice in such a short amount of time - well, whatever had spilled, it would have had to be pretty toxic for him to go to such extremes. 

"Anything you want to talk about? Did your experiment get ruined?" John questioned, going back out into the living room.

Sherlock's eyes were on him in a way that made John uneasy. His roommate was too tense, his posture too stiff, and his eyes held such intensity. John swallowed, but after a moment the look faded and Sherlock answered with, "Inconclusive results. I won't be repeating it."

"I guess that's something," John sighed. He swiped his food out of the bag, leaving Sherlock a fork, and settled down in his chair. "I'm starved. Anything else happen after we parted ways? I spent most of the afternoon with-”

Before John could finish the sentence, Sherlock, his food and his fork were all gone and Sherlock's bedroom door was slammed shut.

"Brilliant," John muttered to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part of this story was a rewrite of something from the original drabbles. They will all be making an appearance in this piece but with lots of added stuff. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags ***
> 
> As we go on I just want to say, there are words like 'spread' and 'infected' and I'm trying to edit them out but they were in the original and I just don't want anyone to be triggered with everything going on in the news right now. So, this is the warning. <3 
> 
> Half-beta'd, written in Philadelphia instead of London, one because I'm American and two because I'm obsessed with my old home town and often liked to imagine the boys there back in 2015 when I started posting the original version of this story.

From that day on, the tension in Baker Street had grown daily until it lurked like an enemy, waiting in anticipation to attack. John had gotten used to seeing Sherlock tinkering with his chemistry set at the kitchen table, but now the table remained chemical-free and the microscope was gone. He thought that Sherlock might have moved all of his stuff into his bedroom, but without snooping he didn’t know for sure.

It had him concerned that Sherlock was cooking something more sinister than types of ash. He had, after all, made the mistake of letting him watch that one season of Breaking Bad.

The other thing was that Sherlock had all but quarantined himself in his bedroom. Ever since that one night, John had hardly seen his roommate. Which, at first, was fine by him. Every once in a while, he could use a break from their bickering, which Lestrade had pointed out sounded a bit like an old married couple. John thought a few nights apart would allow them to cool off, but now-

Now, it was starting to be concerning. 

John sat at the bar where he’d taken Kelly, scrolling through his text messages, worrying at his lip. Nothing from Sherlock. Several from Kelly. He knew that she wouldn’t want to hear him complain about Sherlock right now, and as that was weighing heavily on his mind, he decided to avoid texting her back. Maybe he could lie and just tell her that he worked late? Didn’t sound like something he’d do, but at the same time, he didn’t have any better ideas. He’d only meant to stop in for an after work drink and he’d lingered. It was getting darker earlier. Would Sherlock even notice if he wasn’t there?

“Boyfriend troubles?” the bartender asked. John looked up into those bright green eyes of the same waitress that had solved his problems before. How had he not noticed her when he walked in? 

“No, roommate,” John replied with a small smile. Her pitying expression said she didn’t believe him. He stared at her, trying to deduce her the way Sherlock would, but he was forced to give up. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, although his first impression of her had been that she was gorgeous. No, it was the way her personality shone through her expression and mannerisms. It made her attractive. In that way, he could even compare her to Sherlock a bit, although where Sherlock’s eyes saw too much, this girl’s eyes looked as though she were seeing two different worlds at once. Like she could see something he couldn’t, something that was on another plane of existence. It made him feel like he was in some kind of old story for a minute. He shook the romantic words out of his head. Sherlock often complained about his romanticizing things. “He’s being a bastard right now and I’m just wondering if it was worth it to confront him or if talking about it is going to result in acid in my ice cube tray again.” 

She laughed. “Does he do that regularly?” 

“Only the once, and he did leave litmus paper there for me to test it, but I haven’t felt comfortable making ice since,” John admitted. She laughed again. 

“Good Lord, he sounds delightful.” John nodded, watching as she leaned forward on the bar, crossing her arms under her ample chest in a way that made the good doctor blush just a little bit. He tried to only look at her face. “Tell me more about him.” 

“Erm, well, uh,” John tried to think of a safe story to start on. Not that it mattered, she was unlikely to meet him. “He’s a detective and a chemist, so he’s always doing these insane experiments to prove whether or not people are guilty. I write about him sometimes. On my blog, I mean.” 

“How fun, though! At least you’re never bored. You sound like you care about him a lot,” she said softly, reaching over to pat his hand. His smile fell and he nodded. 

“I do. He’s my best friend,” John replied.

The young woman regarded him for a moment before nodding, mostly to herself. “You were the one with the girlfriend. That first date one. She didn’t like him - how did that work out?” 

“Yeah, um, we’re just, you know, starting out, so we’re keeping it casual for now,” John found himself telling her. “I can’t believe you remember that with all the people you probably see.” 

“It’s not every night I hear a woman complain to her friends that the guy she’s with is too nice,” the girl teased him. “I think it’s pretty awful that she won’t let you talk about your exceedingly interesting friend who happens to take up a great deal of your time, by the sound of it. It’s sort of like if you had a hobby, you know- like sports. You don’t need to like the same team, but you want someone you can at least talk about the game with?” 

It was a very good point, John hated to admit. “You’re a little bit right, I guess. I mean, what if it got serious, how could I go on not talking about him?” 

“You can’t. Take it from me, I’m a bartender, which is just another word for therapist,” she said. “If she starts controlling you now, it’s probably just going to continue. Not to mention, honestly, the roommate sounds way more interesting than this woman looked. I’m not judging, just observing. If you were to ask me who I wanted to know more about, I’m sure I’d be more entertained by him than her.”

John nodded, and his smile returned. “You have an interesting accent. You’re not from Philly?” 

“No, no, here, there and everywhere,” she laughed. She reached up to finger a necklace that was poking out of her T-shirt nervously. It was a large green-tinted skeleton key on a thick chain. Questions about herself were seemingly off-limits as she tried to change the subject back to him. “Come on, let’s not talk about my personal life. Tell me more about this flatmate your girlfriend is so jealous of.” 

Well, John was never one to ignore the requests of a pretty girl, so he launched into one of his favorite cases from back when he’d first met Sherlock. 

***

The glass was loud on the solid wood of the nightstand. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d refilled the glass, but no matter how much water he consumed, Sherlock always seemed to need more. His current level of dehydration made him crave water more than he’d ever craved the needle. (Focus, Sherlock.)

He sat on his bed, head in his hands, bare feet on the carpet. What were the facts? What did he know to be true?

Fact: Water seemed to trigger the changes in his body.  
Fact: The symptoms seemed to be getting stronger with every change.  
Fact: He was now experiencing.. Urges. A need to spend time in his changed form.  
Fact: He was capable of changing his human legs into a - 

How could that be fact? How was that even a conceivable concept? He shook his head. Try again.

Fact: Dr. Robert Michaelson was the most likely suspect in his wife’s murder, which was ironically comitted with a fish just as Sherlock was turning into one.

Would he become a fish? Or was he to be stuck as this half-fish creature? He refused to say what he looked like. There was a limit to how much ‘impossible’ he was willing to eliminate. 

If he could find the motivation in both cases, he would be able to solve them. In the case of Viola Michaelson, he knew that the murder weapon had been an exotic fish and that she had not been murdered in bed but in the bathtub of her home. To solve the case, he would need to know the reason for such a specific murder weapon to be used. In that same vein, in order to know why Dr. Thurman went missing, he would need to know what caused a perfectly sensible researcher to turn fairy tales into real tails. He almost let a hysterical laugh slip through, but a sound stopped him.

John’s heavy tread was coming up the stairs. 

Sherlock pressed his ear against his bedroom door, listening to the doctor putter around the apartment. Without Sherlock to distract him, he’d fallen into a horridly predictable routine. He would bring the mail up and complain about bills that had been forgotten. Sherlock checked the clock on his bedside table. He’d been in his room all day and it was easy to lose track of time. At this hour, John would have eaten dinner out, probably with that woman. A few steps into the kitchen in search of a drink, and as if on cue a swear at Sherlock for not refilling the water pitcher. He paused there and Sherlock wondered what he was doing as it was unusual. There was simply not enough data. 

Why did it matter? What did it matter what John had done or ever did? 

Before he even realized it, Sherlock had given into his curiosities and opened his door. John stood in the dim hallway, on his way to Sherlock’s bedroom. His face was frozen in a mask of surprise. He hadn’t expected to see Sherlock. The detective’s eyes roamed over his friend, then back to his face and in just a few seconds he knew all he needed to know about John’s day. It was a slow day at the office that had given John too much time to think. He’d worked himself into such a state that he needed a drink after work but not in the apartment, which was tense, so he’d gone to a pub. He’d run into someone familiar and had a nice chat, and on his way home he’d stopped for chinese- oh.

“You brought dinner?” Sherlock asked quietly, a hint of surprise in his tone.

John nodded, looking relieved. Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. “Yeah. You’ve been working on those cases lately, I was pretty sure you hadn’t eaten today. I put it in the fridge for you, whenever you’re ready.” 

Sherlock nodded. He slipped past John, checking quickly that his scarf was in place. It was. He took the white containers out of the fridge and started to carefully plate a small bit of food, popping it in the microwave. Everything now was about avoiding moisture or small bits of condensation that might gather in odd places, like on food. 

“Sherlock, about the fridge-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing toxic in there.”

“I know, that’s why I’m concerned,” John said. Sherlock turned to stare at John incredulously. The doctor shifted from one leg to the other and his left hand twitched. Uncomfortable at expressing emotions. Odd. “Things have been a little weird lately, but there’s nothing in there- no feet, no eyeballs, no rotting livers, which, you know, is not a hardship, but I wanted to know if you’re okay. It’s not like you to not attempt to give me food poisoning.”

“Aren’t you always complaining that I leave too many experiments in the refrigerator? If you’re changing your mind-”

“No, no, please, believe me, I’m happy that I won’t contract any diseases while looking for a snack, I’m fine with that,” John said, trying to smile, but the concerned frown never left the space between his brows. “It’s just that, you know. You haven’t been yourself lately. Are you okay?” 

Sherlock nodded. He took his plate out of the microwave. “I’m fine, John.”

“You just don’t seem fine to me,” John said, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“I dislike repeating myself,” Sherlock said, glaring at John, “so I will only say it once more. I am fine.” Sherlock took his food and went into the living room, sitting down on the sofa. He picked up his phone from where he’d left it earlier and started to review his messages. Mycroft, ignore. Lestrade, no further progress made on the pufferfish murder but something new had come up. Sherlock glanced up at John. “Lestrade needs us. Will you come?” 

John nodded. “Yes, of course.” 

***

John wasn't dumb.

He felt like he probably told himself that too many times to be healthy, but sometimes he needed the reassurance. John was not a dumb man. He was a doctor, after all. Of course, compared to the Great Sherlock Holmes, practically everyone was an idiot but John liked to think that he wasn’t as moronic as everyone assumed. Not to mention, he was the personal physician of said genius detective. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew, somehow that Sherlock was behaving a little… weird. Or, at the very least, weirder than usual. 

The nice pub chat he’d had a few hours ago seemed light years away as he watched his roommate stumble around a crime scene, giving quick glances to the night sky. They were outside of the city in a little rural patch of land somewhere between Collegeville and God knows where doing a favor for a friend of Lestrade’s. The night was blacker than usual, with clouds gathering to blot out any hint of the stars or moon. Sherlock was watching it almost religiously now, which was a very new behavior. His deductions were rattled off but there was a hint of stress in his words. John looked up again. It hadn’t been calling for rain today, but then again he’d only really paid attention to the daytime forecast. The wind had certainly picked up and there was moisture lingering in the air. It felt like a late summer evening storm was brewing, and as if on cue, thunder rumbled in the distance.

It reminded him of Sherlock’s voice, a little. 

"Hey, is Sherlock alright?" Greg asked. He was standing next to John, shoulder to shoulder, but he leaned closer to speak. "I hate to say it, but he's looking strung out."

John wanted to scold Greg for being a gossip, but he was inclined to agree. Sherlock was secretive, sly and enigmatic on a good day. Now he was downright cagey. The blond doctor licked his lower lip thoughtfully. “He says he’s fine.” 

"But you don't believe him," Greg pressed. His whisper turned into a hiss. Sherlock’s eyes were watching them and he looked annoyed. From that angle, Greg’s position might have seemed a little more intimate than it was. "He's on one of my crime scenes, John-"

"Look, if he says nothing is going on, we have to believe him," John insisted. His stomach did nervous flip-flops as he doubted himself. "Not trusting him will get us nowhere."

"I've seen him look like that before," Greg muttered, but he pulled back. 

"John, come. There's nothing for us here. Lestrade, have your people search the fields or you’ll risk the evidence being washed away," Sherlock said suddenly. He started striding away at a fast pace. John cast an apologetic gaze at Greg before following. It really was a scenic little place for a murder- ancient cemetery, nice tree for the body to be found under, lots of fields surrounding. It was actually a bit of a hike back to where they’d parked their car share vehicle and the only shelter between them and the car was a tiny, one-room shack pretending to be a church. 

“You know, I’m not a dog. You can’t just say ‘come’-” 

"I don't think I'll make it," Sherlock muttered with another worried glance at the sky. He kept walking, but his stride sped up and John was practically jogging to follow.

"Look, you tall asshole, I can't-"

"Shut up, John. I'm trying to think," Sherlock snapped. It was at that point that the sky decided to open up, letting a heavy rain fall to the Earth below. Sherlock swore and started running for the church, John following close behind. In the pitch black night, the decaying building looked haunted. He managed to slide in just before Sherlock slammed the door closed. 

"No, no, no," Sherlock moaned, water dripping from the slick, dark coils of his curls. His pale skin was the only thing John could see of him without any light. From his movements, he gathered Sherlock was shimmying out of his trousers. 

"Whoa! What are you-"

"No time, can't explain. Make sure the door is barred," Sherlock said. Weird shadowy shapes were creeping over his face. He’d just barely kicked his pants to the side when he fell, thudding hard onto the floor, knocking the wind from him. John already had his phone in hand, flipping through to the flashlight so he could make sure the idiot was okay. 

"It's a shack, Sherlock, it's not like-" John forgot what he was saying. He swallowed. Then swallowed again. He shifted uncomfortably. "Is this a joke?"

Sherlock's face, with his cheekbones edged in delicate blue scales glinting in the LED light, was murderous. He shivered with rage. His scarf had slipped away from his throat, revealing the gasping gills under his ears, and his legs had turned into a long tail. He was... beautiful. Unexpected, but gorgeous all the same. "Does it look like a joke to you? I just decide in the middle of working, John, to whip off my trousers-"

"So, not a joke, then," John said with a hysterical, high-pitched nervous giggle. "Not at all."

"No. Not a joke," Sherlock spat out. John just nodded.

And then promptly collapsed. 

When John woke, they were in the car and driving on, what he assumed, was their way home. It was hard to tell in the darkness. The dashboard clock read three A.M. Farm fields were blending into suburban buildings, a sign that their city was just around the bend. He felt groggy and his head throbbed, which caused him to groan.

"John?" Sherlock's deep voice rumbled in the little car. "How are you feeling?"

John blinked. The last thing he'd remembered was Sherlock looking- well, like- but that wasn't- And now he looked normal again. His pale-pale cheekbones were without even a hint of blue, his scarf was tucked up tight around his throat, and he had legs. Good thing, too, since it would've been hard to drive without them. "Um. 'M fine. What-"

"You slipped," Sherlock filled in quickly. His eyes were trained on the road, with both hands on the wheel. It was a stiff position, and unnatural since Sherlock was actually a fairly good driver. He looked uncomfortable. "You hit your head. I was going to take you to the hospital on the way home."

The good doctor groaned, trying to process what he remembered. His head really did hurt. "But you- I thought I saw-"

"What did you see, John?" Sherlock asked lightly, still without looking at him. They were nearing the hospital, which John dearly wanted to avoid, but in light of what he'd... what he'd thought he'd seen?

"Nothing," John replied. Sherlock's jaw muscle twitched tensely. "No, I don't remember anything. Probably a good idea to get looked over, just in case."

"Quite," came the terse reply.

***

Secrecy was going to be hard while living with another person. Sherlock trailed John as he left the house, thankful that the fall had been dry so far. He wasn’t sure if John had completely forgotten the night in the church, but the subject hadn’t come up again. For all that Mycroft sometimes compared John to a pet or ‘just another ant’, John could be a somewhat sensible human when he put forth a bit of effort. 

Sherlock paused. 

Did Sherlock count as a human being anymore?

He watched John go into the restaurant with the unpleasant woman he’d been dating. Of course, Sherlock hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting (and thus insulting) her, but John’s tense posture and grimacing expression was all Sherlock needed to know about her character. Not to mention the cursory background check he might have done. He wasn’t entirely sure, and he did detest assuming things without data, but he was fairly confident that she had something against him without even knowing him. Sherlock leaned against the wall. He was thankful they’d picked a window seat (kept in the office all day, John wanted to see the sun, predictable and utterly John). It would have been hard to continue to observe had they gone deeper into the building. He was sure of his disguise and his hiding place at the mouth of a side street across the way from them. There had been at least two occasions where he’d pretended to be a client in their own living room, waiting for John when he got home from work, just to see if he’d noticed. He hadn’t so at the current distance and with the facial hair he’d glued on, he was fairly confident in his work. 

If he were being honest with himself, he was sort of lonely. 

If it were just a few weeks prior, it would be the two of them at the dinner table, discussing a case or whatever boring patients John had seen at the clinic. 

But it wasn’t a few weeks ago, it was now, and he was with that woman instead of Sherlock and Sherlock was changed.

He was starting to despair that the change might be permanent. Would John find him monstrous if he knew? Would he- 

Sherlock shook his head. These lines of inquiry were best left closed. What mattered now was the hateful woman running her foot up John’s leg. To John’s credit, he did look a little uncomfortable. John said something to the woman and then stood from the table. Well, that was fine. Without John, Sherlock could just observe how she acted. It was always good to know how one’s nemesis acted behind the scenes.

Was she an enemy? Sherlock considered.

Yes.

She took out her phone and fixed her lipstick. He watched her take a selfie and then either update social media or text someone back. She was utterly boring. He had noticed it had been quite a few minutes since John had left. Was John ill? They hadn’t ordered yet, so the food couldn’t have-

“What are you doing?” John asked, standing behind Sherlock. Sherlock turned, staring at the shorter blond man. John merely raised his eyebrows expectantly, arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t-”

“Come on, Sherlock, I know it’s you. Red is really not your color,” John told him, gesturing to his own hair. “At least it’s better than that one time you were blonde. That was downright creepy.” 

“I might need this disguise in the future. I thought it might be interesting to practice,” Sherlock said, stretching out of his adopted hunching posture to resume towering over John. John rolled his eyes. “Is the date not going well?”

“No, no, it’s um, you know, fine,” John said. He didn’t look like it was fine.He looked like he’d been hoping Sherlock was about to summon him along on a case or something so he didn’t have to go back. “I guess I should get back in there, actually. Unless-”

“Unless?” Sherlock asked, inclining his head to the side. 

“Unless you need me?” 

Sherlock considered for a moment. “I could use your help. It involves a lot of take out and a terrible film. Are you available?” 

John grinned back at him, and it was the brightest smile Sherlock had seen from John in days. “You know, I think I could be. 

He texted the woman quickly and then they both started down the alley towards the other road so as not to be seen, but Sherlock allowed himself a glance back. The woman looked furious and appeared to be saying something nasty to the waitstaff. Definitely an enemy then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a gift for my writing partner, who I've been writing secret Sherlock fic with since 2012. I wrote an original Mary Morstan character that we both are in love with and I just hate not writing her, so we're making her an original character in this by changing her last name. Just wanted to update you for future chapters. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags ***
> 
> \- As we go on, please note that terms like 'infected' and other disease-like words may appear. I'm trying to be sensitive with everything in the news lately but if you're likely to be triggered, maybe skip?
> 
> \- Half-beta'd by MadMags, for whom this was a gift. American Philly Canon because that's my favorite city in the world. 
> 
> \- This is a rewrite of Aquatic Equation Drabbles, so there will be some similarities/reworked scenes such as in this chapter and chapter six.

John sighed, stripping off his clothes and tossing them in the bathroom hamper. Clinic work was boring, busy and left him feeling grimy this time of year. He’d really hoped Sherlock would have something going on, or at the very least that he’d be able to stay home and keep an eye on the detective, but instead he was putting on uncomfortable clothes and taking Kelly somewhere ‘nicer than a frat boy bar’. He’d thought the pub that the redhead worked in was nicer than the average bar without being pretentious, but after ditching her on their last date he decided to err on the side of caution and give in to what she wanted.

But first, a shower to get rid of that ‘puked on’ smell. 

He was surprised that the water heated up so quickly, and he sighed once more as he stepped under the spray. Sherlock had started taking long baths almost daily. He’d even stay in so long John would hear him draining some of the water and filling it back up again, so John assumed he was going to end up with no hot water at all. It was a pleasant surprise. 

He let his thoughts drift to Sherlock as he started to run soap over his tired flesh. The daily baths were strange, and the fact that they sometimes lasted hours was probably concerning. Not that Sherlock had been available for questioning on the subject - he’d started locking himself away in his room if John was home, avoiding speaking to both John and Mrs. Hudson. They’d had that one pleasant movie night, which had landed him in hot water with the girlfriend (John snorted at his own pun), but it was worth it to see Sherlock acting normal- or, normal for Sherlock. 

It had all gone downhill from there.

In addition to the extreme aloofness and his new bathroom habits, Sherlock had also started ignoring texts from Lestrade regarding the pufferfish case, which meant John was now receiving pleading messages from the older detective asking John to intervene. 

As if Sherlock ever did anything John wanted him to. 

Then, there was The Curious Case of the Blue Scarf. John chuckled to himself at the fake blog title. Sherlock was never without the scarf, even when he was dressed in his pyjamas. Was he sick? Was something wrong with him that was causing his temperature to drop, thus needing the additional warmth? Had he harmed himself in some way and was afraid to show John? The doctor’s vivid imagination, which Sherlock often criticized him for, could run wild thinking of possibilities for what lay under that seemingly harmless fabric. Try as he might, John just couldn’t figure out what the deal was, but it was clear Sherlock wasn’t interested in letting John help him. 

It really pissed him off, actually. 

John mulled over these recent developments, leaning his head back against the cool tiles while warm water beat down on him. It was altogether too easy to think of Sherlock in the shower. Gripping himself, tired flesh becoming reinvigorated, while Sherlock’s fantastic face lingered in his mind- 

With cheekbones rimmed in blue scales.

Groaning, John switched off the taps, ready to bang his head against the wall. Something about that concussion-dream-hallucination was sticking with him and he found it hard to stop picturing Sherlock as a- 

As a-

As a mermaid?

John gave a hysterical laugh before he noticed something shining near the drain. When he bent to retrieve it, he realized what it was - a large, vibrant blue fish scale. 

An opportunity, in John’s mind. He wrapped a towel around his waist, and leaned out of the bathroom door, bellowing in his best irritated voice, “Sherlock!” 

There was a nervous clattering of china in the kitchen. "Yes?"

“Are you experimenting on fish in our bathtub?” John called. He stomped out to glare at his roommate, holding out the offending scale. Faux-anger was fueled by his real frustration and he found it easy to act annoyed. “There aren’t chemicals I need to be concerned about involved, are there? You should have told me before I took a shower.” 

“How was I to know what you were going to do in the bathroom?” Sherlock rolled his eyes like a petulant child being scolded by its mother. “Where else would you like me to put them? You have odd reactions when I attempt to store experiments in the refrigerator.” 

In John’s current opinion, Sherlock could store an entire dead body in the refrigerator and it would be a welcome step towards their brand of normalcy. “Just- Just promise me that I haven’t just bathed in something toxic, alright?” 

Sherlock’s sea-colored eyes looked John over from head to toe. He seemed to follow the dripping water from John’s blond hair, running in rivulets down his muscular, if a little soft, chest. John was taken in for a moment at the intensity of the stare and he stepped forward. Sherlock countered with several steps backwards, plastering himself against the countertop. The wordless rejection hit John too keenly, turning his blood cold. 

“Alright, whatever. Have your experiments in the bathtub. I’m going out tonight, so just, y’know, have it cleaned up before I get back.” John started back towards the shared bathroom where he’d left his clothes. He was surprised to hear Sherlock following, dragging his body against the wall as if to avoid the slightly damp path John had created. 

“John, where are you going?” 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m taking Kelly out to dinner to make up for leaving her last time,” John said through the closed bathroom door. He dressed quickly but neatly, a habit left from his military days. Clean jeans, his favorite sweater, nice shoes. He ran a comb through his hair, wondering if he should borrow Sherlock’s blow dryer.

“Cancel it. It’s pouring out,” Sherlock demanded through the wooden panel. Ok, so no on the blowdryer. John sighed and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired and old. 

“So?” John reached for his deodorant and then added a splash of cologne. “We’re going to dinner, it’s not like we’re going to be outside. I’m pretty sure I can handle a little rain, Sherlock.” 

He heard Sherlock heave a heavy sigh on the other side of the door. Opening it, he found the detective’s face too close to his own. It would be so easy, with Sherlock’s mouth already tipped down, and John's chin angled up to close the distance and- and-

“I’ll see you later, Sherlock,” John said, swallowing and pushing past Sherlock. Sherlock followed, pausing at the door to the apartment. 

"Have fun, John," Sherlock finally said, resigned to being alone during a rainstorm. "Don't get wet."

***

Dinner was ridiculously, impossibly dull. John had to stifle a yawn every few minutes or so. He kept his cell next to him on the table under the pretense of being on call, but he was secretly hoping for Sherlock to interrupt. Literally, any other distraction.

He wondered what was wrong with him.

Kelly seemed like a perfectly normal woman. She was pretty, she was friendly. Sure, she was a little bit boring and honestly, the restaurant thing bothered him. 

But when she spoke, his thoughts drifted, and he knew this wasn’t where he wanted to be. He glanced down at his phone again as it lit up with a text.

[Lestrade: Sherlock not answering. Poison case development, are u availble?]

“Everything alright?” Kelly asked and John flushed, meeting her icy gaze.

“Yeah, sorry, that’s the on call system, you know, a patient. I’ll be right back,” John told her, snatching his phone. He was happy for an excuse to leave the table. He dialed Lestrade.

“Hey, got your text. What’s happening?” John asked, stepping outside, trying to keep under the tiny awning over the door. Rain pattered heavily on the sidewalk. 

“We got a lead on a potential suspect and I wanted to mention it to Sherlock,” Lestrade told him. “Are you with him?” 

“No, no, actually, I’m on a date. He’s not answering? He should be home,” John replied. He frowned. 

“I’ve been texting him but there haven’t even been read receipts. It looks like the dead woman’s husband, you know, the fish doctor, he was connected to a research project and one of the other researchers have gone missing. Could be something important, especially because up until now the husband has been our only suspect, but there’s no proof that he did it,” Lestrade complained. “I could really use Sherlock.” 

“I can pass along the message, but to be honest, he hasn’t been really forthcoming with me on this one. Or,” John glanced back at the restaurant, thinking of Kelly, “maybe I’ve just been distracted.” 

“No, he’s been distracted.” Lestrade let out a breath, groaning. “If he’s going to be this unreliable, John, I’m going to have to stop bringing him in on cases.” 

“You won’t, that’s an empty threat,” John said, trying to joke. “I’ll talk to him. I don’t know if it’ll do any good-” 

“Just try. I have faith that my team can solve this, but the quicker the better and Sherlock does have a tendency to get things done. When he’s focused.” Lestrade paused. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone new. What happened to, what’s her name, the P.A. you were seeing?” 

“Linda. Um, broke that off a month or two ago. This is Kelly. Probably breaking it off in ten minutes,” John replied. He heard the detective chuckle. 

“That bad, huh?” 

“No, she’s nice enough, just not my type and she has this weird rule where I’m not allowed to talk about Sherlock at all. I couldn’t even tell her I was coming out to talk to you, I had to pretend you were a patient,” John explained.

“You what?” Kelly’s low, angry voice asked from behind.

“Lestrade, I’ve got to go. I’ll, um, talk to you later,” John said, hearing Lestrade’s laughter as he hung up.

***

The test of willpower had not gone smoothly.

Sherlock sighed unhappily, his chin resting on the white porcelain tub. He’d already had a bath today, but the rain was increasing his desire to be in the water. He wondered if it had to do with the moisture in the air. He’d already had one long bath earlier in the day, and he’d been determined when John left not to get wet again. Then, as an excuse to break his own personal vow, he’d thought perhaps if he simply willed himself not to change he might be able to stave off the transformation.

Which was stupid.

And Sherlock was not accustomed to being stupid.

Of course he’d completed the transformation exactly thirty-six seconds after touching water. 

He slid down, letting his head dunk under, watching as his shaggy curls stretched out over his head like chocolate seaweed. Desperation and panic were setting in, clouding his ability to see logic. Of course one couldn’t just will one’s flesh to do something. If that were the case, no one would become ill and John would be out of a job. 

He huffed out a breath, blowing bubbles above his head. John was another problem entirely. His current girlfriend was lingering, creating an unpredictable variable in their lives. John’s routine was centered around pleasing her, which made it easier for Sherlock to hide his new second nature but also created an unwelcome hole in Sherlock’s own life. He wasn’t used to craving the company of others, but when it came to one Dr. John H. Watson, Sherlock found him not only wanted but imperative. 

He’d better not bring that woman back to the apartment. 

His tail flopped and twitched outside of the water in the bath, creating puddles while he had his head submerged. Data. He was missing so much data and there was no reliable way of getting it without potentially revealing himself in more ways than one. He lifted his head above the water, keeping his neck submerged and sliding up slightly, contorting so he could view his montrous appendage.

Detestable. 

If only John were here. Even when Sherlock was self-exiled in his bedroom, having the other man putter around their home was a comforting presence. It made him feel less alone. Of course, it was better for Sherlock to be alone. John was excessively fond of beverages- coffee before work, beer after dinner, water all of the time. One of Sherlock’s first experiments had been with timing and contact with liquids. If any of those drinks happened to spill or had excessive condensation, Sherlock would have thirty-two to thirty-six seconds to remove his trousers or shred them. He couldn’t rely on John to faint every time the transformation took him. Eventually, he would probably be forced to admit what was happening. 

No, it was better to stay alone. 

His tail gave an unhappy flip. He wondered what a larger body of water would be like. He had to admit that the tub was beginning to feel… cramped. 

A few hours later the door slammed downstairs, startling Sherlock out of his ‘experiment’, which had devolved into an underwater nap. The uneven footsteps on the stairs had his eyes opening. John was not only home, but the lumbering scuffle and scrape sound indicated a slight limp. He was drunk and upset.

Damn that woman!

Sherlock’s heart raced as he glanced at the bathroom door. He hadn’t locked it. The risk of discovery was, admittedly, a little thrilling but he didn’t want John to find him all the same. 

“Sherlock! You!” John’s voice called through the apartment. Ah, a break-up, then. Something had soured between the new lovebirds. John’s steps came closer and the knob to the bathroom door started to twist. “Sherlock?” 

“No!” Sherlock commanded, attempting to haul himself out of the tub. He slipped back down, sloshing water. “No, John, I’m having a bath.” 

There was a little bit of a giggle and knob remained twisted. “I’ve seen naked men b’fore. ‘M a doctor, y’know.” 

“Yes, yes, but don’t come in,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Okay, okay,” John groaned. From the dull swish and thump in the hallway, it sounded as though John had sat down just outside the door, bottom end on the wooden floorboards. “Lestrade called. You haven’t answered him.” 

“The case is dull. He’ll figure it out on his own eventually,” Sherlock said. He flipped his dripping hair out of his face. 

“He said he won’t bring you in anymore if you don’t help,” John replied. There was a scratching noise leading from the doorway onto the floor. John was drawing drunken little scribbles on the wood. 

“If Lestrade has taken issue with me or my methods of solving his paltry cases, instruct him to address me directly with his concerns,” Sherlock told him. John didn’t speak for a few moments.

“She dumped me, you know,” John said. 

“So I gathered,” Sherlock replied. He hauled himself up again only to slip once more. Maneuvering out of the tub was awkward even when he wasn’t in a hurry. 

“It’s your fault she did that,” John continued, his words smashing together. Sherlock frowned, doubting the validity of the statement. Sherlock decided to pop the drain before trying to move again.

“My fault? How could it possibly have anything to do with me?” Sherlock questioned. There had been that one interrupted date, but compared to the other women John had dated that had been fairly tame. He hadn’t insulted her, called her by the last woman’s name, interrupted them multiple times - all in all, Sherlock had been almost respectful his time if only because he was a bit distracted. 

“Because you’re an ass,” John giggled, and from the dull thudding sound, he assumed John had tipped over and laid himself out on the hallway floor. “She didn’t like when I talked about you. It was annoying. She didn’t like to hear about cases or adventures. She’s boring. You’ve ruined me for boring girls.” 

Sherlock was not well acquainted with the finer points of human emotions, but John’s tone had him suspicious. It sounded like he was in a decent mood, despite his recent breakup, but he also sounded sarcastic. Sherlock frowned, trying to focus. “You’re upset with me.”

“Yes! Ding ding! Sherlock for the win!” John said with a muffled giggle. “Final answer, Sherlock for the win.” 

“Because I’ve been… distant with you?” Sherlock guessed. He finally managed to heft himself out of the tub and onto the floor, dropping with a thud. He reached for a towel and started the tedious task of drying his scaly appendage.

“You make me sound like a teenage girl,” John complained with a sigh. “No television, no take out, no cases. No experiments! Well, that’s okay. No experiments doesn’t suck. But you’re gone! And I can’t help you. Where are you, Sherlock?”

“God, you’re wasted,” Sherlock murmured. Surely, John had enough to distract him? His now-ex girlfriend, work, drinking with Lestrade- had he really missed Sherlock even with all of those things? It truly never occurred to Sherlock that his attachment to John was reciprocated. He leaned against the tub. The cold porcelain made him shiver. “I apologize, John. I’m working on an experiment that has taken up the majority of my time.” 

“It’s okay. You’re busy,” John said. It would be so easy, especially with John already intoxicated, to call him in. To show him exactly what had been going on. Perhaps it would take some of the stress out of the situation, being able to lean on someone else. In the end, John didn’t give him a choice. He could hear more denim and cotton shuffling together as John pushed himself to his feet, and a slight tapping of his boots as he stumbled. “It’s all fine. Bed now, I think. Night, Sh’lock.” 

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said, listening to the sound of John's retreating footsteps, waiting for his tail to dry.

***

John was impossibly loud the next morning. Bed springs creaked and groaned, echoing the noises coming from the doctor as he made his way out of bed. His bare feet slapped on the steps which creaked under him, and as soon as the bathroom door was closed there were many other sounds that were unpleasant followed by some swearing and a promise never to drink again which would last about three days.

He’d been stupidly plastered. He’d justified it at the time - breakup! Sad John! - but honestly, he was getting too old for this kind of overindulgence. He splashed some water on his face and then brushed his teeth, hunched over the sink. 

There was a cup of tea, a glass of water and two tylenol waiting for him next to his chair. He sank down and popped the pills gratefully. Sherlock was sitting at the table that operated as a desk when the kitchen table was unavailable. There were papers strewn about in front of him. 

“I could use your assistance, when you’re available,” Sherlock said. He glanced up and gave a hint of a smile. 

John grinned back, even though his head was splitting. “Sure. I’m available.” 

Sherlock had pages of notes spread in front of him, some in his spidery scrawl, some written in a different, more feminine hand. He shuffled through a few pieces of paper, looking for God knows what. “I’ve been unable to focus on Lestrade’s scintillating poisoning case. I’m unsure as to why it’s taken him so long to solve it on his own. The answer is fairly obvious.” 

“If you know who did it, why don’t you tell him?” John asked, moving from his comfortable chair to sit across from Sherlock at the living room table. 

“Where is the fun in that, John? Of course, I have my theories, but my case for Mycroft is taking more effort than I originally anticipated and, while I might know how Viola Michaelson died, I do not possess proof as to why the suspect was so inclined,” Sherlock said. “Our friend in the Italian Market was unable to source any information regarding that particular fish. I have one more I might try in Chinatown.” 

“Do you want to talk through the case for Mycroft? I know, I know, it’s confidential but if you’re having that much trouble with it- I mean, you know you can trust me,” John told him.

“I do know,” Sherlock murmured. He sat back and looked across the table at his friend. “It’s become a rather personal challenge.”

“Lestrade called yesterday, by the way. Said he couldn’t get through to you. Something about how a researcher connected to the husband has disappeared as well,” John told him, picking up a random paper. 

Sherlock’s lips parted and he stared at John incredulously. “Damn my brain.” 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“If I’d been thinking clearly for even a moment- One of the laboratories in which Mycroft’s missing researcher worked, it was local. I hadn’t even made the connection,” Sherlock said, swearing uncharacteristically and shuffling through the papers faster. “What an excellent point you’ve made, John.” 

“Is it? Or is this like every other time where I think I’ve done something clever and you just tell me I’m an idiot,” John asked. He frowned, watching his friend’s manic movements. “Wait,what point?” 

“I hadn’t considered the possibility that you’ve just pointed out. It was really quite obvious, I’m disappointed in myself,” Sherlock said, and he made a note in the ratty little black notebook.

John stared at him for a moment. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“If you haven’t managed to follow along, John, I’m very disappointed in you. The researcher that Lestrade mentioned to you and the one I am searching for on behalf of my lazy brother are, in fact, the same woman. We’ll need to speak to Dr. Michaelson, and soon,” Sherlock replied, looking at John with a smug smile. 

“The husband?” John asked, still struggling through his minor hangover.

“No, the pufferfish. Pay attention, John.” Sherlock paused and regarded John again. “About yesterday-”

“Don’t worry, I won’t get used to waking up to a hangover cure,” John said teasingly, attempting to avoid whatever conversation Sherlock was trying to have. 

“Good. I will not be making a habit of it,” Sherlock sniffed, looking back down at the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a gift for my writing partner, who I've been writing secret Sherlock fic with since 2012. I wrote an original Mary Morstan character that we both are in love with and I just hate not writing her, so we're making her an original character in this by changing her last name. Just wanted to update you for future chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags**  
> \- Half-beta'd by MadMags, for whom this was a gift. American Philly Canon because that's my favorite city in the world.
> 
> \- This is a rewrite of Aquatic Equation Drabbles, so there will be some similarities/reworked scenes. It was never my intention not to use the existing material, rather I just wanted to supplement it with new stuff to tie it into a complete story.

The day before Halloween, the city was gripped with the most appropriate weather, in John’s opinion. It was foggy, grey and finally starting to feel chilly- proper graveyard weather. Of course, that meant a wave of people with allergies thinking they had the flu, so his office was swarming with sick visits. All he wanted was a warm dinner, a cold drink and possibly an early night. He had a vague tickle in the back of his throat and he was hoping to avoid getting sick himself. 

Lestrade’s voice had him pausing on the stairs, though. “Sherlock! Be reasonable!” 

“I said no.” 

John frowned. With the stall in both the missing researcher and the poison case, Sherlock hadn’t been out of the apartment for the better part of two weeks. He’d spent every day tinkering on something, but knowing the man as John did, he should’ve been jumping at the bit to go out again. 

“But-”

“No!” Sherlock’s tone set John on edge. He frowned, teeth clenched. After a moment of consideration, he steeled himself as he had before many a battle and just as he was about to throw open the door, Sherlock’s scathing voice added, “Oh, get in here John, and stop skulking on the stairs.” 

The doctor rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. Sherlock stood with his back to the room, silhouetted against the streetlamp that flooded in from outside. He was dressed in dark trousers and a dark shirt, but his feet were bare, as though he'd been interrupted while getting dressed. Coiled like a viper around his throat was his favorite scarf.

Lestrade was closer to John, standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, pushing his suit jacket out of the way. Dark circles ringed the officer's eyes, and his face was worn and haggard. His eyes pleaded with John.

“It's a locked room,” he begged. “A potential serial killer. We have no leads and he will not budge.”

John scrubbed at his brow, trying not to frown harder than he already was. He was tired down to his bones but perhaps a case would do them both good. John had to admit, he was a little bored himself with the current routine. “Alright, Sherlock. Rebuttal?”

Sherlock didn't face them, but his low tone was murderous. “I am not required to go on every case they summon me for! I have my own life and private cases to work on! I have explained to Lestrade that I'll be there tomorrow but I will not drag myself out in this weather simply because they have an incompetent investigative team!”

“Hey!”

“Sherlock!” John said, temper flaring in defense of Lestrade. He stepped closer to his friend, noticing the tightness in Sherlock's muscles and the tension running through his frame. His friend was ready to spring in any direction, to escape this conversation, if need be.

“I'm allowed to say no,” Sherlock insisted, continuing to stare out into the sheeting rain. “And if you insult me by asking if I'm high-”

“Are you?” John asked anyway. Sherlock finally turned to glare at John, hard enough that he almost flinched. However, his friend's pupils were normal. Still, forgetting that Lestrade was watching them, John leaned even closer and softened his tone. “What's gotten into you? What's wrong?”

It appeared for a moment that Sherlock was going to answer. The fire in his eyes dimmed, but Lestrade shifted behind John, breaking the spell. “Leave it. I said I would be there tomorrow. That must be enough.”

With that, the detective swept past both the doctor and Lestrade, slamming the door to his bedroom. John scrubbed at his face again. “I really wish I knew what was wrong with him lately. He's been behaving like a lunatic.”

“More so than usual?” Lestrade asked, trying for humor despite his own stress. “You work on him and text me later. I’ll try to stop by in the morning with pictures of the scene if he’s up to it. And hey, at least there’s the party tomorrow night to look forward to, right? We’ll blow off some steam then.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there,” John agreed with a sigh. He gave a little wave as Lestrade showed himself out. Rolling his eyes, for no one but himself, he started down the hall. He rapped gently on the door. “He's gone, Sherlock.”

He was met with silence.

Temper flaring, John knocked again. “Sherlock! You're-”

The door swung open and Sherlock's angry face glared down at him. “I'm what? Being an ass? A brat? A self-righteous bastard? Please, Saint Watson, tell me how I'm offending you today so I can alter my behavior to please you.”

His words were a bit like a slap in the face and all John could do was stare at him. “I- I'm not trying to change you.”

“Aren't you?Your incessant nagging, your name calling – aren't they all just attempts to control my actions? I don't need a nanny to babysit-”

Mid-rant, for once, it was John that made an accurate deduction. His eyes widened with realization, and he blurted out, “You're trying to distract me.”

Alright, by the look on Sherlock's face, only half accurate but that still beat a blank. John continued. “You're not really upset that I call you a prissy bastard, you know you are. What is it?”

“Self-righteous bastard,” Sherlock corrected. He deflated and backed away from the door, not letting John in but not as angry as he had been. “It's fine, John. The unsolved cases, they’re just weighing heavily on my mind. I- I can’t stand the idea that I might fail at solving them.”

“You rarely fail, Sherlock. And if you don’t get it, no one else will,” John said. He reached out and gently gripped his friend's arm. “I'm worried about you.”

Sherlock's answering smile was soft, sweet and kind. It was also incredibly fake. “I'm fine, John. It's a confidential matter. It will be solved soon and we can return to how things were.”

He straightened and shut John out once more. John nodded to himself, angry and honestly hurt that Sherlock was refusing to trust him with this. Well, he thought, as he settled into his arm chair with that beer he'd promised himself. There's more than one way to skin a Holmes.

***

It was a day for John to feel stupid. First, the case that Lestrade had insisted was a serial killer was easily solved, barely registering as a four on Sherlock’s case scale. John didn’t want to admit to being slightly disappointed because that was akin to wishing for more victims, which was bad, but a serial killer would have been a nice distraction for both him and Sherlock, which would have been good. Then, even with Lestrade’s little reminder the night before, John had forgotten the Halloween party entirely which left him with the most uncomfortable last-minute costume. He sipped at his warm beer with a grimace. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to do this, but some of the officers in Lestrade’s department had decided on a costume party at a local bar they frequented and John was invited as Lestrade’s wingman. It was a decision that John was regretting immensely. The doctor shifted, trying to ignore the polyester monstrosity he was wearing.

It was fluffy.

It was plastic, creaking fake leather.

It had a fake sword.

He’d almost put it back when Lestrade broke out into “I am the very model of a modern Major General” right in the middle of the aisle. It wasn’t fair that Lestrade was too tall for most of the remaining costumes or that he’d managed to snag the only vampire fangs left and got to wear his regular clothes. 

“Come on, lighten up,” Lestrade said, thumping John on the back, causing him to swallow a little too hard. John glared in return. Lestrade just smirked at him. “You’re a very convincing pirate.” 

“Why? Why was I doing this again?” John asked, fidgeting some more. The white fluffy shirt was particularly annoying.

“Because last month your boyfriend- oh alright, calm your tits, yes, I know, not your boyfriend,” Lestrade laughed, “made three of the rookies quit on the spot and also I haven't been laid in a month. I'm going to look fantastic next to you. That’s not even starting to cover the way he made the new forensics officer cry this morning.” He snorted into his beer. “Speaking of, did you invite him?”

“Who? Sherlock? Yes, I made that mistake a few days ago,” John sighed. Since John’s drunken conversation and the awkward, half-hungover morning after, it seemed like Sherlock was making a deliberate attempt to spend more time with the doctor. It made John burn with embarrassment because he was sure it was some kind of twisted Holmesian pity. “He said, and I quote, 'don't be a child, John'.”

“How you live with him, I'll never know,” Lestrade said, but he was still grinning. Deep down he was fond of Sherlock. “Ooh, what about her?”

John twisted to follow Lestrade's gaze. “Which one?”

“The sexy nurse.”

“I'm pretty sure that's not a nurse, it's Anderson and I think he's supposed to be a candy corn,” John said, tilting his head to the side in confusion. He glanced up at Lestrade. “How many have you had?”

Lestrade clapped his hand on John's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. “Not nearly enough. Watch my beer, I'm going to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure,” John agreed, turning towards the bar with his back to the room. He took another sip and cringed. God, he hated holidays. It would've been much nicer to just stay at home and... and what? It's not like Sherlock was going to plop down on the sofa and watch The Great Pumpkin with him. Although, he might have enjoyed that pumpkin catapult thing, but it was probably best not to give the idiot genius any more ideas. They were still finding bits of that watermelon explosion from last summer in the living room, and the smell had never quite left the sofa cushions. He sighed, watching that same pretty redhead bartender girl make drinks for the other costumed patrons. She looked at him and grinned back, giving a small wave in between pulling beers. He tipped his glass up at her. It was probably not good to hit on someone who saw you regularly getting dumped by other girls, not to mention the fact that he’d have to find a new drinking spot when things inevitably went bad. He turned back towards the room, looking for Lestrade.

Instead, he got to see Sherlock making his way through the crowd. John couldn't help the smile that immediately stretched across his face. “You came! I didn't think you'd be here!”

“I was summoned,” Sherlock replied. He frowned down at John. “According to a text from Lestrade, you are too inebriated to make your own way home. You must be, that outfit is atrocious.”

John pretended to scowl. “You're one to talk. Did you put that on just to come get me?”

Sherlock looked down at his clothes. He was wearing that beautiful purple shirt that made him look paler yet somehow still stupidly attractive with one of his signature dark suits. Halloween had been warmer than usual so he wasn't wearing an overcoat. All in all, it was a normal look. “What are you talking about? These are my clothes.”

“What about the,” John said, gesturing to his own face. “You know, that's some incredible make-up. What is that, latex?” John started to reach out, and that's when Sherlock caught his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Along his cheeks, on both sides, the scales had erupted, blue and iridescent. He felt the blood steal away from his face, lips parting as he stared. Realizing John's fingers were still reaching out to touch him, he jerked back, regretting it instantly. John looked hurt.

“Right. So, um. Home, then? Wait, Lestrade-”

“Is currently in a deep discussion with a woman in a tiger costume. Come along, John,” Sherlock said, his tone tense and clearly annoyed. John slumped, but he followed where Sherlock led him, as he always did. The Uber back to their apartment was uncomfortable, with Sherlock staring at the window the entire time. It gave John a chance to stare at the detective's intricate Halloween make-up.

“What are you supposed to be, anyway? Is it like the Swamp Thing?” John asked, but he was met with stubborn silence. When they arrived home, Sherlock tore up the stairs and locked himself in the bathroom once more. He leaned on the sink, feeling the cold porcelain under his frigid fingers. The scales had never been there without rain. It had been a dry, warm autumn day that led into a crisp, dry night. He grimaced, feeling entirely sick at the hypotheses running through his mind.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, what's gotten into you?” John stood outside the door, hands on his hips. “You didn't need to come get me if it inconvenienced you. I think Lestrade was exaggerating.” Although, he did sort of feel tipsy. Maybe he needed to cut back on the liquor. “Look, Sherlock, you've spent more time in the bathroom this month than you have anywhere else in the flat. I'm a doctor, if something is the matter I can help you.”

Sherlock groaned. “It's fine, John. Maybe it's food poisoning. It was very sudden.”

“Are you sure? You seemed okay but-”

“I'm fine!” Sherlock snapped again, unable to stop staring at his reflection. Why were they still there? He was dry! “I'm fine, John. Can you go find some pepto? Maybe that will help.”

Nothing was going to help.

“Sure,” John said slowly. He didn't believe Sherlock for a single moment. “Yeah, I'll be right back.”

Sherlock breathed out heavily, continuing to grip the sink. Nothing John could bring him was going to make this stop. He wasn't sure the cause or the cure, but there was one thing he could tell and it was terrifying.

The infection was spreading.

***

Sherlock did not trust the way that John was doing chores. Given the minor intoxication of the previous evening and the fact that he was not on call for today, he would have slept in just a bit and then made himself (and Sherlock) some coffee while attempting to bully Sherlock into eating breakfast. However, he was moving about the apartment with no hesitation, no hint of feeling unwell, tidying as though the President were coming. Sherlock, perched in his chair, watched John working, wondering what he’d missed, starting with Lestrade’s case from yesterday.

John had been hesitant with Sherlock, giving his professional opinion when asked but he hadn’t been entirely focused on the corpse or, frankly, anything Sherlock had said. He’d had the audacity to ask the detective to repeat himself several times, which was annoying to say the least. Finally, he’d left Sherlock to take an emergency call from work,although his facial expressions seemed inconsistent with phone calls from his job. The firm line and tightness around his eyes had been more consistent with the face John made when he ate something he didn’t like than the soft exasperation of his employer calling. Also, he usually didn’t excuse himself from Sherlock’s company for work calls. 

And now he was cleaning, of all things. His posture, always military straight, was even more rigidly at attention. Sherlock's eyes tracked John as he took a few dishes into the kitchen, limp causing his gait to be unsteady. His limp returned when he was tired or anticipating something unpleasant-

Oh.

John wasn't simply doing chores. John was tidying up for company.

He crept out of the chair as silently as possible, slinking until he loomed behind John, who was rinsing out the mugs in the sink. It was dangerous territory to be this close to him while he was handling liquids, but danger was their specialty anyway and Sherlock was beginning to feel so confined by the secrecy.

“When is Mycroft coming?” Sherlock rumbled near John's ear. It sounded more sexual than he intended, which was disgusting as the word “Mycroft” was involved.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John swore, blushing a little at the shock. He'd dropped a mug and the handle snapped off. Glaring at Sherlock, he started to clean up the broken crockery in the basin. “What makes you think I know what makes your brother come?”

Sherlock frowned, trying not to gag at the thought. “John.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I get it. You said you were working on something important, something confidential, but I’m fucking worried, okay? I believe you when you say you’re not on drugs, but-”

“So you thought betraying my trust and consulting my brother behind my back was an effective solution?” Sherlock spat, glaring down with fiery eyes. “I’d hate to be a patient of yours if that is your definition of confidentiality, doctor.” 

“That’s just it! You’re not confiding in anyone, Sherlock. Not me, not Lestrade, not Molly! I wouldn’t have even considered going to Mycroft but I won’t stand by and watch you mutilate yourself while on some bizarre, secret quest!” John snapped, drying his wet hands on the cloth next to the sink. He threw the rag down on the table and stepped closer, mirroring the anger in Sherlock’s stare with his own. 

“Mutilate myself? I would ne-” 

With an efficient twist, John wrenched the scarf from Sherlock's throat, revealing the scarred gashes on his skin. “You were so upset the other night, you must have removed the scarf in your bedroom and forgot to throw it back on again when I knocked on your door. Sherlock, what case could possibly have you looking like this?” John's gentle fingers brushed the sensitive area that, when wet, would erupt into gills. Without thinking, Sherlock leaned into the touch.

“John, I-”

“Highly classified, Sherlock,” Mycroft's silken tones chided from the doorway. Blood drained from Sherlock's face and he turned away, knowing he couldn't hide from Mycroft, but hating that he had to admit to his brother that he was in trouble. “Sherlock.”  
Sherlock stared at the wall, eyes wide, refusing to turn to greet his brother. “Go away, Mycroft.” 

“Come now, Sherlock. Don’t be a child. Doctor Watson merely thought I might be of some assistance,” Mycroft said silkily in a tone that implied future favors would be owed. John reached out to touch Sherlock’s arm, fingers gripping soft fabric. For a moment, when their eyes met, John thought that he might have been wrong in calling Mycroft after all. He’d never seen this type of panic so blatant in his friend’s usually controlled features. With a minute nod, Sherlock set his mouth in a firm, defiant line and turned to face his elder brother.

The elder Holmes took in the scarring on Sherlock’s throat and then let out a heavy sigh. “We will need to speak. Privately, of course. No offense, Dr. Watson.” 

“He wouldn't understand any of it,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes going hard.

“He understands phrases such as severe dehydration, infection, contagious-”

“He is standing right here and he understands the two of you are impossibly condescending.” John crossed his arms over his chest. The Holmes brothers, who were probably going to be the death of him at some point, just continued to glare at each other, having some kind of silent conversation. John's eyes turned to Sherlock. “Are you contagious with something?”

Sherlock started to answer but Mycroft interrupted. “It's a matter of national security that this stay-”

“Yeah, yeah, private, I got it,” John said. He continued to stare at Sherlock, eyes imploring. “You've been ill? And you haven't told me?”

Sherlock leaned in, lips parted, eyes tight. “Later. We’ll talk later.” 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned.

“I am so sick of the evasiveness. As if I haven't helped you on private cases before,” John snapped. He closed his eyes, trying to contain his temper in front of Mycroft. When he'd opened them again, Sherlock had also schooled his expression so that it was devoid of any softness. “I'm a damn good doctor and even if it's one-sided, I care about you.”

“John.”

“No. No, Sherlock, it's fine. Whatever this is, just sort it out yourselves.” John left, snagging his jacket on the way out. He didn't really need it, as fighting with the brothers and his emotions had his blood pumping.

Sherlock found him a few hours later, nursing a beer at a bar. Not the usual Irish place, because he’d hoped that by going further away from home he wouldn’t have to see Sherlock for a while. The dark wood and smell of greasy, delicious food was comforting. 

“Did the two of you have a nice visit?” John snarked. He stared down at his nearly empty glass. Sherlock leaned close to him, their bodies almost touching.

“Whatever you're thinking is wrong,” Sherlock said. He gave a short sigh. “And I, unfortunately, cannot tell you the truth.”

“Yeah, yeah, national security, blah, blah,” John muttered.

“John, I-” Sherlock paused, and he seemed to be debating with himself. “If I could tell anyone, it would be you. That's going to have to be enough for now.”

John gave an infinitesimal shake of his head, staring into Sherlock's strange eyes. “That's never stopped you before. You know you can tell me anything.”

“Let's just say I was researching a case and the results of which have given me a condition that I may suffer from for life. I hope not. I'm researching the possibilities. But I can't tell you anything more than that, and you cannot continue to ask me, either.” Sherlock angled away a little and reflexively tapped two fingers against his lips. John knew it meant he was aching for a cigarette. He reached out and trapped one of the detective's thin wrists, pulling his hand away from his mouth.

“So what, then? I just pretend you're not- sick?” John asked, brows knitting together. He could feel Sherlock's strong pulse through the thin skin at his wrist. Sherlock allowed the contact for a few seconds but he did pull away eventually.

“I'm not sick, exactly. I don't know what we can do except continue as we've been doing. Unless,” Sherlock frowned, lips pressing together. “I really do not enjoy these types of interactions, John. We simply go on as we've been doing up until this point. We are friends, you assist me with my work, and sometimes I will spoil your sleep patterns with various interruptions.”

John nodded slowly. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. John took in Sherlock's sincere expression. This hadn't been easy on the detective, either, that was for certain. His dark curls were a chaotic mess and his eyes were tired and sad. John couldn't help but linger on the scarf, now that he knew what damage hid beneath it, before bringing his eyes back up to Sherlock's.

“We could try, I suppose,” John allowed. Sherlock's answering grin was relieved.

“That's all I ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things real quick:  
> \- As we go on, please note that terms like 'infected' and other disease-like words may appear. I'm trying to be sensitive with everything in the news lately but if you're likely to be triggered, maybe skip?
> 
> \- This is a gift for my writing partner, who I've been writing secret Sherlock fic with since 2012. I wrote an original Mary Morstan character that we both are in love with and I just hate not writing her, so we're making her an original character in this by changing her last name. Just wanted to update you for future chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags**  
> \- No beta. American Philly Canon because that's my favorite city in the world.
> 
> \- This is a rewrite of Aquatic Equation Drabbles, so there will be some similarities/reworked scenes. It was never my intention not to use the existing material, rather I just wanted to supplement it with new stuff to tie it into a complete story.

“That’s a very interesting necklace,” John told the bartender, motioning to the key she had around her throat. “It’s very unique.” 

“Yes, unlike your pick-up lines,” the girl teased in response. “Beautiful necklace, beautiful eyes but I know what you’re all really thinking. Beautiful-” She motioned to her chest. John snorted into his drink. “You’re only having water today? Were you just here to say hi, then?” 

“Hey! I ordered food!” John protested. He grinned at her. 

“Too true. What’s your name again? I’ve seen you so often recently, I feel like I should know what to call you,” she asked. 

“I’m John,” he said, reaching out his hand to shake hers. “And you are?” 

“Mary. It’s nice to meet you, John,” Mary said. Her green eyes sparkled and she leaned over the bar, folding her arms under her. For all that she joked about her chest it seemed she also enjoyed flaunting it. “Alright, let’s see. You haven’t been in with that blonde woman in a while, so I’m guessing that ended. You’re not drinking today, which means you have something on your mind that you’d rather not forget. I’ve laid eyes on that gorgeous guy you live with so… obviously you’re here for therapy. I’d be happy to help you.” 

“I have a therapist,” John protested, but he was laughing. “How do you know I’m not here for your phone number?” 

“Again, I’ve seen that guy you live with. Yum. Or, that’s who I’m assuming the giant swamp-thing brunette was. Mmm,” Mary hummed appreciatively and John laughed again. 

“I’m not gay,” John protested lamely. He was sort of tired of saying it. “And I’ve complained about him enough for a lifetime this week.” 

“Okay, so complain about the now-ex-girlfriend because you didn’t deny that. I love a good bitch fest.” Mary looked around at the nearly empty restaurant. “Especially on a slow lunch shift.” 

“She was really nice,” John said but Mary was already shaking her head.

“No, she wasn’t,” she said with a grin. “Remember, we met because I heard her complaining about you in the bathroom.” 

“It was short. There’s not much to complain about,” John said. A server put his order on the end of the bar and Mary went to retrieve it, sitting his sandwich and fries in front of him. “It’s me, I guess. I just don’t understand why everyone gets to jealous of Sherlock!” 

“Don’t you?” she asked, snagging one of his fries, popping it in her mouth. 

“No? He’s my roommate. I spend ninety percent of my time with him. Of course I talk about him a lot. And, and- she kept saying I don’t take her to nice places. It all seemed really superficial,” John grumbled, squirting ketchup on his plate. 

“Alright, here’s a question. If it were Sherlock, would you bring him here for a date?” Mary asked, resuming her casual lean. 

“Probably not. He doesn’t talk about his family much but I’m sure he comes from money. I’d take him somewhere quiet, expensive- wait, that’s not- that’s very tricky of you,” John told her. She giggled and it turned into an appreciative hum again.

“There’s a lot to be jealous of. He’s extremely handsome, he dominates a lot of your time and, from what you’ve told me, all relationships take a back seat to his demands. But…” 

“But what?” John asked, taking a bite of his pulled pork sandwich. 

“Well, even if you’re ‘not gay’, you care about him a lot. That kind of love scares people,” Mary said. Her lips twisted to the side in a mischievious grin. “You’re a little bit gay.” 

“Oh, God,” John groaned, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling back at her. “Shut up.” 

“You asked!” she giggled. A new customer came in and sat at the other end of the bar. Even though her smile stayed on her face, Mary straightened up and her humor faded. She nodded at John and moved to greet the stranger, but John couldn’t help but notice a stiffness come over her. John’s eyes flicked to the stranger, just because sometimes hanging around Sherlock made him curious to know if he could deduce anything himself. All he could come up with was the basics of the guy’s appearance. Short, lean build, white tee shirt, low-riding grey sweatpants and a baseball cap hiding dark hair. Still, there was something about him that John didn’t trust, even though the guy was probably just there to drink and watch the sports replays on television. John shook his head and went back to his sandwich while Mary took the man’s order. He watched her in the mirror behind the bar as she pulled his beer from the taps.

She was a very pretty, very charming young woman. He enjoyed her company a lot, but she didn’t make his heart pound any quicker than it usually did. Of course, neither had Kelly. But Mary was sweet and she reminded him a bit of Sherlock, actually, with her quick wit and insights. 

And then he cursed his brain for immediately thinking of Sherlock. It was a perfectly normal afternoon and John was out pestering a pretty woman, why the fuck was he thinking about his stupid roommate?

He let his mind supplement Sherlock working behind the bar for a second. He imagined him working in a fitted black button-up shirt, pulling a beer. Everything he did was so damn elegant he’d probably look like a model doing that, too. Mary was right to say Sherlock was beautiful. He really, really was. 

Mary looked over at him and winked, but in his mind’s eye he saw Sherlock.

John’s phone started vibrating with a text. He chewed another fry thoughtfully as he checked it.

[Dr. Michaelson is dead. Come to this address now. - SH]

John grinned to himself as he texted back. [If convenient?]

“Shall I be wrapping your food to-go, sir?” Mary teased, coming back over. “That’s the happiest smile I’ve ever seen you have. You’re almost blushing.” 

John just grinned wider as Sherlock’s answering text came through. 

[If not, come anyway. - SH]

“The game, it seems, is afoot,” John told her. “Check please?”

***

Of course, Sherlock was brilliant as usual, and yet the Uber ride back to the apartment was oddly quiet. John chewed the inside of his cheek as he contemplated what had taken place at the scene of the crime. They’d never had a murder happen at an aquarium before. It would make an interesting blog post, at least.

Winter had settled over the city, but while the air outside was bitterly cold, nothing could rival the chill that swarmed inside the car. Sherlock was in a temper, staring out the window and refusing to meet John’s gaze.

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?” John asked. He was met with silence. The army doctor cleared his throat and tried again. “I was thinking about writing this one up.” 

Nothing.

John gave it a few moments and then tried again. “I could call it the Case of the Sinister Cephalopod?” 

Sherlock stiffened, but still said nothing. John stifled a giggle as he thought back over the afternoon. 

“What about the Adventure of the Tentacled Terror?” 

“Do so and I will see to it that you are unable to disgrace the written word with your romanticized-” 

“Struck a nerve, have I?” John continued, interrupting whatever threat Sherlock had been about to make. Annoying the detective would, at least, keep him talking, hopefully. Anything was better than more sulky silences. “You might as well let me write it up. The boys down at the station aren’t going to forget this for a long time.” 

“They might, if you let it die,” Sherlock muttered angrily. 

“Sherlock, it’s perfectly natural for people to have fears. If yours just so happens to be-” 

“Finish that sentence-” 

“Doling out all the threats today, are we?” John said, hiding another giggle. He cleared his throat. “It was an interesting case, and you solved it brilliantly. It probably screws up your other case a bit, but-” John stopped. He watched the detective’s profile, looking for any sign of softening up. He knew Sherlock was pleased at the compliment. “No one else would have known that someone had trained an octopus to kill Dr. Michaelson. Honestly, you were amazing. It’s just sort of funny to know that the prickly consulting detective is afraid of a-” 

“I’m not afraid of it!” Sherlock snapped, finally looking at John with bright, angry eyes. “I’m not afraid of an octopus or any other ocean dwelling creature!” 

“Alright, alright, it’s fine,” John said, giving a good-natured laugh. “It’s alright, Sherlock, that’s all I’m saying. Look, we’re home. Let’s just try to have a nice night in, okay?” The car slowly pulled up in front of their building, idling by the curb. 

“You go in. I have to go to the lab. With our prime suspect in the pufferfish poisoning dead, I’ll need to run some tests and reconsider some information,” Sherlock told him. The sulky frown returned to the detective’s face. John shook his head. 

“Come on, take the night off. I’ll cook-” 

“As though there is anything about your cooking that would tempt me to delay my research!” Sherlock snapped. His eyes were angry and narrowed when he glanced back at John. “I have important work to do that you are not necessary for. Get. Out.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sighed. The Uber driver was looking annoyed, but John wasn’t quite ready to let the argument go. Truthfully, he deserved it a little. He knew better than to tease Sherlock when he was in a mood such as this, but at the same time it was nice to know he had weaknesses. It made him seem human. “I’ll go, but you’re being a real prick about this. No one cares that you’re afraid of fish, okay? We’re just playing with you.” 

He was met with stony silence again. 

John slid from the car and slammed the door, noticing that Sherlock avoided looking at him as it pulled away. Right. So much for a nice night in with his friend, then.

***

It didn’t take much convincing for aquarium security to allow Sherlock back into labs and he sensed Mycroft’s hand there. His brother might protest that he was merely a minor government official, but there were times when he seemed omnipotent. Of course, the administration of the aquarium wanted the murder hushed up as quickly as possible, especially considering that it was tied to another recent fishy death.

Sherlock’s shoes clicked on the concrete floor. The noise seemed amplified and echoed as he approached the tank with the creature John assumed he was afraid of. 

He was afraid. To some degree. 

He was afraid he was losing his grip on humanity, perhaps. He hadn’t had much of it to start with but what little bit he had was surely being wiped out as the infection continued to spread through his body. No, no. As much as he was afraid, he had to admit to himself- he was fascinated. Horrifyingly, disgustingly fascinated. 

All of the cases wrapped up in neat little bows, except for the current whereabouts of Dr. Thurman, and he couldn’t tell a single soul. But at least now he knew she was still alive. 

He tilted his head to the side, watching the creature move across the bottom of it’s habitat. The murder itself had been simple. Dr. Thurman had trained the tentacled little monster to sneak from it’s tank and stab Dr. Michaelson with a loaded syringe full of insulin. He hadn’t considered that she might have been diabetic, although thinking back on his cursory investigation of her apartment he remembered seeing a prescription bag in her trash. No fingerprints or evidence could place her at the scene. It’s not like they could arrest the octopus. There were some minor features of interest, but no. 

The real interesting part was not the case itself but how he solved it. 

He hadn’t investigated, had barely bothered to look for clues. He hadn’t needed to- he’d been told.

It was very distracting to enter a building full of voices. The sounds and vibrations had stunned him and he hadn’t known what to make of it, at first. He’d tried to discipline himself to ignore them. It had to be impossible. If only he’d been using, he could have chalked it up to a bad trip, but when he’d stepped into the lab and set eyes on the loud, indignant little murderer, the truth had crashed down on him like a Lovecraftian horror. 

He could talk to fish. 

He didn’t know how long he sat on the work bench staring at the octopus, listening to it chatter at him, excited to have a stranger in the room. Mycroft found him eventually, appearing behind his brother. 

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked through numb lips. His eyes felt dry and tired. He could hear Mycroft’s disappointment not in his voice but in the softness of his treat and the way his lips were pursed, poised with questions that might be too impolite to ask.

“It’s late,” Mycroft said finally. Sherlock nodded. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it, Sherlock?” 

The consulting detective just continued staring at the octopus. “I’m going mad, aren’t I? You’re going to tell me this is a horrible dream and I’m actually in an asylum somewhere.” 

“There’s always a facility willing to research you, Sherlock. Just allow us to examine you,” Mycroft started to say, but he trailed off. Even he couldn’t guarantee Sherlock’s safety at a place such as Baskerville. 

Sherlock’s head whipped around to glare at his brother. Mycroft never trailed off. It simply wasn’t done. What did it mean?

Mycroft looked sad and uncomfortable, but something else, as well. Desperate? Concerned? It echoed with how Sherlock was feeling. 

“I’m not your experiment, Mycroft, and I never have been,” Sherlock snapped. He stood, knowing that the octopus could hear the tension in their tones. He started to stride towards the door but Mycroft stepped in front of him. 

“Regardless of what’s happened to you, Sherlock, we’re family. I only want what’s best for you,” Mycroft said. It was neither soft nor emotional, it was merely a fact. “You cannot continue alone. It’s time to think of a plan, for when it becomes impossible for you to… stay as you are.” 

Sherlock attempted to sneer at his brother, but as much as he hated to admit it, his brother was rarely wrong. “I need a name. I need to know where to focus my search.” 

“I only have one,” Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. He hoped that whatever was coursing through his brother’s veins would allow him to remain human enough that he could solve this. “Moriarty.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Convenient.” 

“Cities have a long history of criminals using restaurants to front their less legal business endeavors,” Mycroft drawled. “Is it really so surprising?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “John will be safe, regardless of what happens.” 

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed, and again Sherlock was struck by how out of character it was for his brother to be agreeing with him. 

“You assume I won’t get better,” Sherlock realized. He felt the blood stealing from his face and his fingers. It was one thing for Sherlock to think that, but it was a wholly other thing for Mycroft to be in agreement. “You’re resigned.” 

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. “I never doubt your abilities, brother mine. I merely attempt to be prepared for any possible outcome.”

Several hours later, Sherlock climbed the seventeen stairs up to his living room. He was surprised that, in the quiet, dark building, the lamp was still on, casting a golden glow on the room. He stood in the shadows, a wretched creature too afraid of the truths the light could shine on him, staring at John. He was bundled in a throw blanket on the sofa, neck bent in an uncomfortable position. Sherlock debated. He was exhausted and attempting to get the good doctor up the stairs on his own was unappealing, but he couldn’t leave John twisted in that position. He’d be sore tomorrow. With a sigh, Sherlock attempted to rouse John from his sleep. He managed to get him up and walking, albeit essentially still asleep, and together they stumbled down the hallway to Sherlock’s room. He helped John settle down under his duvet. Just as he was turning to leave, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. 

“Stay,” he mumbled, snuggling further into the blankets. Sherlock stood there, allowing the contact, staring at his friend. He felt something stirring in his chest at the sight of John sleeping safely in his own bed. He looked so peaceful. Words like “mine” and “handsome” and “love” might have flitted through his brain had he not been preoccupied with his upcoming tasks. 

“As long as I can,” Sherlock whispered back. He gently removed his wrist from his friend’s grip and went back into the kitchen to get himself a tall glass of water. He could feel himself drying out from not having enough to drink all day. How inconvenient. John’s laptop stoof open on the kitchen table, a new short story about their most recent case displayed in his Google docs. Sherlock’s lips twisted into a scowl. He reached down and with a few quick strokes it was deleted from existence before slamming the laptop shut. 

No one ever needed to read the Case of the Second Ink Stain anyway.

***

The bar was painted an obnoxious blue that almost glowed in the dusky evening light. Streetlights were flickering on, casting shadows. Sherlock took a drag from his cigarette, watching the front of the building. Moriarty’s, the pub where that ridiculous Halloween party had been held. The pub where John and Lestrade occasionally tried to drag him for drinking nights. He remembered the beer had been disgustingly warm and the bodies pressed against him, nearly giving him anxiety. He hated being touched by strangers. Although, it wasn’t all bad, as he remembered how John’s sandy gold hair had glinted in the warm light and the attractive smile he’d flashed on of the bartenders. At the time, the jealousy he’d felt had surprised him. He hadn’t realized he’d felt so… possessive of John’s attention and afterwards he made sure to send them on their drinking nights by themselves so he didn’t have to watch the endless parade of women that John seemed determined to flirt with.

Idiot. 

Sherlock took another long drag before stamping it out on the brick wall he was leaning against, letting the smoke curl out of his nose like a dragon. Other than the color of the facade, there was nothing unusual about the building that he could observe at this distance. He would need to go inside. He sneered to himself as he approached it, looking at the name emblazoned on the building in large gold letters. It was entirely gaudy and probably some sort of genius to advertise your criminal name in giant letters on the front of a busy restaurant, but he had to admit that it took a certain level of wit and audacity.

The interior was just the same as the other half-dozen pub style bars that Sherlock had pulled John out of at one time or another. Knick-knacks cluttered the walls, the wood was dark and stick and the tables were entirely too close together. A large old-fashioned mirror was stationed behind the bar. He was sure it was a two-way. He’d spent several hours observing the rear of the building and he knew roughly where the kitchen was situated. There would be a private room behind the bar, accessed through the cooler. Sherlock was going to be observed and he didn’t like not seeing the face of the person watching him. 

The hostess tried to greet him but he waved her off, approaching the bar. He could almost picture John, slightly toasted and flushing, wearing that ridiculous costume but smiling at Sherlock. Feeling the warmth of drunk John leaning on him for support. 

The crowd was small, though it was getting late and the dinner rush would be starting. There was a space open at the very center directly in front of the mirror. Sherlock wasn’t about to believe it was good fortune. He was expected. Disappointment dragged his features into a frown. He had enough of dramatic yet subtle manipulation from Mycroft. He didn’t need more of it.

The bartender approached him, wiping her hands on a damp rag. Her hair was red and pulled into a curly-frizzy ponytail, green eyes bright and amused. Her face was open and friendly but with a guardedness that made her appear to be in on some kind of private joke. “Can I get you something?”

“Whiskey. Neat,” Sherlock said, perching uncomfortably on one of the stools. “No preference.” 

“Expensive it is,” she grinned. He watched her as she moved to make his drink with quick, efficient motions. Her eyes met his as she sat the glass in front of him. “You want a menu? We have the best buffalo sauce in town. I like to dip fries in it.” 

“Not really my area,” Sherlock said, and for a moment his memory flashed to John again. Saying that when he probably shouldn’t have. She nodded at him and picked up her rag again, wiping down an already clean portion of the bar. 

“Are you looking for something in particular? Or just having a nice lonely drink on a cold day?” she asked. 

“I’m actually looking for a friend. She went missing a few weeks ago and this is the last place she was seen,” he lied, pitching his voice to sound sad. He watched the minute changes in her expression. She knew he wasn’t telling the truth, but they were both puppets in some kind of play and unwilling to break their roles. “If I showed you a photo of her, do you think you could tell me if she’s been in recently?” 

The girl frowned at him, but nodded. “I could try. We get a lot of people in. We’re a bar in Center City, after all, so I see a lot of faces and I don’t remember all of them.” 

She’d been coached on what to say to him. Her attitude was too casual and her aimless cleaning was all for show. Sherlock nodded and took out the photograph of Dr. Thurman that Mycroft had procured for him, trying to make his eyes large and searching. If she was going to play games, so was he. 

“Do you know her?” he asked, voice going deep and rumbling. He knew that tone worked well on Molly, so he assumed it was sexy. Her eyes flashed and her lips tilted up. 

“Hmm, no,” she replied after a moment’s contemplation. Sherlock nodded, tucking the photo back in his pocket. “Was she your girlfriend?” 

“I-I don’t know if that matters,” Sherlock said, leaning into the assumption. He wondered if she’d give him more information if he pretended to be the wounded boyfriend-type. 

“Were you together long?” The girl leaned on the bar, her ponytail of curls draping over her shoulder. His eyes drifted down to the interesting key around her neck and the tight tee shirt she wore before flicking back up to her eyes. He couldn’t tell if she’d bought the gesture or not. 

“A while,” he agreed.  
“And she just,” the bartender shrugged. “Disappeared without a trace? That’s kind of _fishy_ , don’t you think?” 

It took more control than he liked to hold back an instinctive hiss at the phrase she’d chosen. “That’s why I’m looking into it. I just want to know what happened to her.” 

The girl reached out and took his hand, stroking over his palm. She followed one of the long lines there and a wicked grin stole over her face. “I don’t think that’s it. Your love line isn’t pointing at a girl. There’s someone else.” 

Just as Sherlock was about to reply, a server approached the bar, carrying a tray of food. The man was short, probably the same height as John, and had inky black hair slicked away from his face. He wore the same uniform tee shirt that the girl had on, but it showed off his slight but muscular arms. They were well toned from lifting trays and probably kegs. His eyes were dark and, if John were narrating, soulless, but this was Sherlock and he refused to give into that sort of romantic thought. Sherlock looked back at the girl, knowing she wasn’t going to give him anything today.

“Mary, whose are these?” the man asked. She jerked away from Sherlock, dropping his hand. 

“Table five. I’ve got it,” she said, giving Sherlock a goodbye nod and taking the tray off to the table in question. The detective stood, deciding to retreat for the moment, and he took some cash out of his wallet to cover the drink. The dark haired man grinned at Sherlock. 

“Nah, on the house. Compliments of management,” he said, pushing the money back at Sherlock. It was then that the detective noticed the slight Irish lilt in the man’s words. Sherlock nodded, and as he left, he threw one more glance in Mary’s direction. Somehow, he had a sneaking suspicion that she knew his secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things real quick:  
> \- As we go on, please note that terms like 'infected' and other disease-like words may appear. I'm trying to be sensitive with everything in the news lately but if you're likely to be triggered, maybe skip?
> 
> \- This is a gift for my writing partner, who I've been writing secret Sherlock fic with since 2012. I wrote an original Mary Morstan character that we both are in love with and I just hate not writing her, so we're making her an original character in this by changing her last name. Just wanted to update you for future chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider reading my other works!! < 3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags**
> 
> \- No beta. American Philly Canon because that's my favorite city in the world. OC/Ooc Mary character (end notes explain) 
> 
> \- This is a rewrite of Aquatic Equation Drabbles, so there will be some similarities/reworked scenes. It was never my intention not to use the existing material, rather I just wanted to supplement it with new stuff to tie it into a complete story.

John poured two cups of coffee, biting his lip with worry. He didn’t think he could get Sherlock to drink anything, but coffee had a better shot than water. He sweetened Sherlock’s and then carried it in, placing it on the coffee table where the brunette would be sure to see it. 

“You’re working yourself to death over this case,” John probed gently. Sherlock was standing in their living room, staring at several pieces of evidence he’d stabbed into the wall. Photos of Dr. Thurman, the body of Viola Michaelson and then Dr. Michaelson both alive and dead- it was a little bit much. He knew Sherlock had been awake for two solid days, determined to find the link between the murders, trying to make all of it fit together. “Stop. Have something to eat-” 

“No,” Sherlock snapped, not breaking his stare. John took a good look at Sherlock’s profile, studying the tired lines and bloodshot eyes, the stress in his stance. His hair was a wild mess that stretched out in a fuzzy halo. 

“Sherlock, you can’t-” 

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled. “It has to be here. There’s something I’m missing.” 

“Maybe it will come to you if you give your brain a chance to rest,” John said, attempting again to distract the detective. “You’re not well, Sherlock.” 

“Maybe this resting is how your average brain functions, but it is not necessary for me,” Sherlock ground out. John pressed his lips together, hand spasming around his own mug. 

“You could try talking it out? I don’t mind listening to the facts. You might have missed something,” John suggested. Sherlock whirled on him and John almost, _almost_ flinched away from the angry expression on his face. 

“As if you’d be able to discover something I couldn’t,” Sherlock hissed. John ground his teeth, nostrils flaring, and he put his mug down on the side table a little too hard. Some of the liquid sloshed out. 

“I understand you’re upset, but I’m only trying to help.” 

“And failing miserably,” Sherlock said, turning back to the Holmesian equivalent of a mood board. 

“You know what, just. Fine. Just fucking fine,” John snapped. He was so sick of being a punching bag for the brooding madman. He turned on his heel and snagged his jacket. Something in his tone caught Sherlock’s attention, snapping him out of his misery. When he spoke again, his voice had softened just a little bit.

“John-”  
“No, no, it’s fine. Just do what you need to do,” John told him, sliding his coat up and over his shoulders. He could feel the rigidity in his own posture. If he didn’t get out of the house now they were going to have a fight and John just didn’t feel like it today. “I’m going out.” 

Before Sherlock could even reply, John was down the stairs and out of the building, slamming the apartment door as he exited. The cold air was a refreshing slap to his face, but he had no where to actually be, so he just started walking. His angry steps took him in the direction of Old City but by the time he got there his own anger had burnt off. He wandered down to Penn’s Landing and stood for a while, staring into the Delaware. Giant fish gathered under him, expecting to be fed, but he had no bread for them. 

He sighed. 

Sherlock had never been an… easy man to live with, of course. John was used to it. And, for the most part, he thought they balanced each other nicely. Sherlock could be cold, cruel and calculating. And he surely seemed determined to keep John from getting laid. But John wasn’t a peach, either. He had his own hot temper, his stubbornness that more than one girl had complained about and his occasional night terrors. 

John shook his head. Ever since the case for Mycroft started, ever since whatever affected him had happened, Sherlock had been more than John could handle. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, but eventually he started to wander down towards South Street and then back up towards Center City. His stomach started to growl just a few streets away from Moriarty’s and, since Sherlock probably couldn’t be bothered to eat and John wasn’t ready for the aftermath of their morning fight yet, he directed his path towards the bar. Thankfully, Mary was on shift. Why did she always seem to be there?

“You had another fight with your friend,” she announces before he even greeted her. He gave a huff that was meant to be a laugh but couldn’t quite manage it. 

“How could you tell?” 

“It’s all over your face. What’s he done now?” Mary asked him.

“He’s just wrapped up in a really strange case. Our only suspect was just murdered by a cephalopod and we have no leads. The trail is pretty cold,” John told her, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on his chair. He didn’t even need to order, she was pulling a pint for him and sitting it on the sticky bar. “He’s just been in a horrible mood because he’s frustrated. It’ll pass.” 

“That sounds tough. You’re a good friend for sticking it out with him, but he still shouldn’t be allowed to treat you… well, like you’re disposable, I guess,” Mary said. She reached her hand out for John’s. “Here, let me see.” 

“What- What are you doing?” he asked.

She grinned, wrinkling her freckled nose. Mary’s hand was softer than his and her warm fingers traced over the lines in his palm. “I’m going to read your future and tell you when your boyfriend is going to get over himself. Are you ready?” 

John laughed for real this time. “Do you ever actually work or are you just some crazy person that shows up and bothers the customers?” 

“My boss and I have an understanding. As long as none of the tills go missing and I obey his every whim, I’m free to do what I like otherwise. He doesn’t question my methods,” Mary teased. A sweet flush graced her cheeks. 

“Reading palms is part of your methods?” John grinned. “What kind of bar is this?”

“A bad one,” Mary said. Her fingers tickled his skin. “So this line here shows that you’re a very decisive man in your work life. You like to make firm decisions and command your subordinates.” 

“I don’t know about command,” John said slowly, but he couldn’t argue with her truthfully. It was how he’d been promoted in the army, after all. 

She traced her finger along the line in question. “This is a very deep line here, and that means the traits that it represents are well developed and ingrained in you. You’re a hard worker and a steadfast companion.” 

“So far so good,” John said. She winked at him. “I mean, none of those are really bad traits, are they?” 

“True, but it also means you can be very stubborn when you want to be. Perhaps when you want something very badly,” she teased. Mary took his other hand, stroking softly over the lines on his palms. It didn’t seem like she was reading any particular line when she spoke. “You’re capable of great love, but you don’t trust easily.” 

John shivered. “That’s, um, rather personal.” 

“It’s true, though.” She contemplated his palm a little while longer and he tracked the movements of her green eyes as they moved back and forth, glancing at the planes of his palm. “This split here, that marks a tragedy that’s coming. It’s fainter than the tragedies you’ve suffered. You’re going to get your heart broken, John.” 

Panic welled up inside his chest, but he didn’t let her see how her words affected him. He snatched his hand back from her. “Thank you, I think that’s enough for today.” 

“Love doesn’t have to be romantic. You can care for someone deeply without being romantically involved with them,” Mary sighed, leaning on the bar, examining her own hands. Her lines were very faint, making her skin look oddly smooth. “I have no love line. See here? Nothing.” 

He nodded. 

“I just think, I think maybe I need to go. I’m not really hungry, I just, um, wanted to say hi,” John said, feeling a little unsettled. 

“Well, it’s on the house today. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry if I’ve done something inappropriate,” Mary said. She hopped on something, boosting her height so she could lean even further over the bar to whisper in his ear, “Just as I gave your boyfriend something for free when he came in to check up on your whereabouts.” 

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when John returned home, and he still wasn’t back the following morning when John was getting ready for work. Worry gnawed at his bones so he shot off a text as he left the apartment. 

[You ok? Hows the case? -JW]

He didn’t like how uneasy Mary’s accurate readings made him feel. It was just superstitious nonsense to believe in something like palmistry. Not to mention Mary was not psychic. John didn’t believe in the supernatural, but he did believe in meddling bartenders who needed to mind their own business. 

The day at work progressed busily. The only receptionist had spiked a fever over her lunch break and needed to go home early, and neither John nor the other doctor scheduled knew how to make appointments or answer the phone with any real success. They tried, but it wasn’t going well. Still, he found himself almost hearing Mary’s words echoing in his brain. 

“He’s going to break your heart.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” the older lady he was in the office with asked. John shook his head, rolling his shoulders. He hadn’t realized he’d even spoken out loud. 

“Nothing, nothing, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from,” John apologized, scrubbing a hand over his tired eyes. 

“Your waiting room is a zoo,” she said patiently. “Busy day today?” 

“Ah, yes, I apologize for that.” He stood and started to usher her out of the room. “We’ll adjust your blood pressure prescription. It’ll be waiting at the pharmacy for you.” 

“Oh, those e-prescribes! Makes everything so much quicker,” the woman cooed. “I remember back when-” 

John wasn’t listening again. Her voice and the persistently ringing phone had blended into the background as he realized there was a very familiar tall, dark figure waiting at the empty receptionist desk for him. His collar was turned up against the bitter weather outside, framing sickly pale skin and exhausted eyes with purple shadows framing them. Wherever he’d been, it was clear Sherlock still hadn’t slept or, if he had, it wasn’t much. His hair was a complete disaster, but John noticed a fresh suit layered under his warm winter coat so he had, at least, changed clothes. John let his eyes roam worriedly. 

“Are you okay? You’re never here,” he asked. He sent an apologetic glance to the disgruntled people in the waiting room and motioned for Sherlock to come back to his office. The detective shook his head.

“I just wanted to bring you this,” Sherlock explained, holding out a hot coffee. John hadn’t noticed the paper to-go cup in his hand and he accepted it gratefully. “I tried to get through on the phone to let you know I was coming by-” 

“It’s been insane,” John said with a thankful smile. “Someone had to go home early and none of us know how to answer the phones.” 

“Ah. I see. Well, hopefully you’re able to enjoy that,” Sherlock told him before turning for the door. He paused and then sent a smirk over his shoulder. “It’s not poisoned.” 

John snorted, letting a giggle slip out when he noticed a few of the waiting patients looked alarmed. “Today I don’t think I’d even complain if it were.” 

“Nonsense. You’re much more useful alive rather than dead,” Sherlock told him, smiling once more before heading out, letting another few patients into the already packed waiting room. John sighed, gripping his coffee with one hand, picking up another chart with his other. “Mrs. Douglas?” 

A lady stood and started to follow John back to one of the exam rooms. “Your boyfriend is very handsome.” 

“Ah,” John choked out, holding the door for her, but then he just shook his head. “You know, he really is.”

***

Sherlock stood at the window in the weak afternoon sun, staring down at the street as he waited for the man to climb the stairs. He needed a better plan and one was just not coming to him. As the final footstep caused the top stair to creak, expensive shoes announcing their owner’s arrival with a gentle tapping sound, Sherlock turned to observe his guest.

He wasn’t dressed in sweats or a borrowed bartender’s uniform. He was wearing a slick, perfectly tailored suit with his hair styled back, away from his face. He was about as tall as John and had the potential to be handsome, if there weren’t something utterly disturbing about his inky dark eyes. 

“Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty purred, slithering into the room, hands in his pockets. 

“Mr. Moriarty, I presume. Of the obnoxiously blue Moriarty’s pub,” Sherlock replied calmly. 

“Among other things. I’m sure you have some ideas.” Moriarty dragged his finger lazily along the mantle, pursing his lips. 

“It’s a little bit of a cliche, don’t you think? A minor league mafia style criminal using a restaurant as his front for business,” Sherlock drawled, pretending to be bored, even as the man’s fluid movements set his nerves on edge. He examined his nails thoughtfully. 

“I’m as minor league to crime as your brother is to the government, I imagine,” Moriarty said, sitting himself down in John’s chair. “Don’t play with me, Sherlock. Although, darling, you should see me in a pinstripe. Or, am I not blonde enough for you?” 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Moriarty? I assure you, I’m a very busy man,” Sherlock said curtly, failing to hide his loathing of this man.

“Of course you are. I know all about your business. You’re the man everyone comes to when something fishy happens,” he cooed. He waved his hand at the murder wall. Dr. Thurman’s face seemed to stare back at them. “I’m surprised at you, Sherlock, really, I am. You haven’t even figured it out yet and it’s all so elementary. You disappoint me.” 

“It’s solved. I haven’t had the opportunity to redecorate my living room,” Sherlock lied, sitting down in his own chair. Moriarty leaned forward, eyes glowing with humor. 

“If you want another puzzle, Sherlock, all you have to do is ask,” he said with a grin and a wink. “Like a fairy tale. I can grant all your wishes.” 

“I doubt there is anything you could give me that I would want,” Sherlock said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. Moriarty gave an exaggerated shrug before pulling something out of his breast pocket. He didn’t appear to be showing the object to Sherlock particularly, even though that was exactly what he was doing. It looked more like he wanted to toy with it. An antique key on a chain with a greenish patina, flipping in and out of Moriarty’s fingers casually. 

“There’s so many things I could give you. I could give you John Watson on a leash, if you wanted. Bend him over, make him adore you,” Moriarty told him. “Once you have the key, you can open so many doors. Force so many things. Even you ought to believe that.” 

“What is it you’re implying?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to look bored even as his heart raced in his chest.

“You’re floundering, Sherlock. You’re feeling a bit like a fish out of water. All your focus has been taken from you, all your brains unable to solve even the smallest of murder cases,” Moriarty teased, continuing to fondle the chain. “Just ask me, Sherlock, and I can give you so much. We would be magical together.”

“There’s no such thing as magic.” 

“Open your mind, my dear. There’s no such thing as consulting detectives, and yet you created that position for yourself. There’s lots of things that can be created if you know how,” Moriarty said. He paused, lips twisting in a new rueful grin. “You don’t even know how it was done, do you? Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, you _are_ in over your head.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. 

“I enjoy you, Mr. Holmes. Sherlock,” he clicked his tongue hard with the ‘k’ sound and leaned back again, looking very much at ease in John’s chair. It made Sherlock’s blood run hot. He watched as Moriarty’s pale fingers slipped the necklace back into his pocket. “I’ve been following your work for some time. You’ve managed to inconvenience me, just a smidge, but I think our time together is coming to an end. Little fishes shouldn’t try to swim in the big ponds.” 

“Spare me. The puns are beneath you,” Sherlock drawled. 

“Are they?” Moriarty stood, pretending to straighten his suit. “I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock. I really am. I kept it so simple for you and I thought you would have it all worked out by now. I guess you’re not the brightest fish in the sea after all.” 

“As delightful as this has been, Mr. Moriarty, I am a busy man. If you’re just going to tell bad jokes, I’m sure we both have better things that could occupy our time,” Sherlock said, also standing. He loomed over the shorter man, glowering down. Moriarty reached out to trace the line of Sherlock’s lapel, looking as though he’d quite won the battle. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” he crooned softly, eyes going wider and wider. “We could have been so perfect together. Two brilliant brains. But you’ve got Big Brother and the Good Doctor watching out for you. Well, I’ll tell you Sherlock, I know how your fairy tale ends and it’s grim. I’ll see you around, my dear.” 

Moriarty tutted his way out of the flat. 

The detective stamped his foot, placing his hands on his hips. He cursed inwardly. What had been the point of that visit? To gloat that he knew something about Sherlock? His fishy puns pointed in that direction rather obviously. If that were the only thing, Sherlock would be just as disappointed in him as he appeared to be in Sherlock. 

The nemesis equivalent of “I wanted an arch enemy and all I got was this lousy tee shirt”. 

No, no, Sherlock thought, shaking his head. There had to be a purpose. He ran through the encounter entirely in his mind, examining every small detail he could. The tapping of his shoes as he entered the room, the soft, jig-like steps to the mantle, pretending to run his finger in the dust- 

Sherlock’s head whipped to the side, first staring at the long obvious finger mark that Moriarty had left, then to the other side. Across the room, from his murder wall, Jennifer Thurman looked out at him from her photograph. 

The dust.

Under the sofa, in Dr. Thurman’s apartment. Sherlock had inhaled it, coughing it up as he attempted to get at the moleskine journal. A moleskine he hadn’t seen on his first visit to the place. In blinding clarity, and with absolutely no proof, Sherlock suddenly understood what Moriarty had been showing him. 

He’d wasted so much time with the cut, examining the hidden blade over and over again for any traces of the chemical that had infected him. Whatever compound he’d managed to inhale, it was long gone, cleaned up by the new renters at Dr. Thurman’s apartment. He’d inhaled it and he’d been infected before he ever got back to Baker Street.

***

Even as some things tied up neatly, like realizing he was wrong about the method in which he was infected, more strings began to unravel. Reluctantly John left him to visit his family. Some holiday surrounding the consumption of turkey and it was Harry’s first holiday without her wife, so John really had no choice but to go. Sherlock’s research into the disappearance of Dr. Thurman, the woman who had trained an octopus to kill her colleague for murdering his wife, had him searching all over Philly for evidence that he could not seem to find. She was still missing, vanished into thin air, and his only witness to her continued existence was a nosy octopus.

He needed John. Or cocaine. Or both, but he knew that John wouldn’t like that. 

The case took him back to that disgusting restaurant where Dr. Thurman had eaten her lonely meals. The staff could tell him nothing more than they already had, and a few of them who’d remembered her before had actually already forgotten her. 

How many people would forget him?

“You’re looking lonely, handsome. Can I buy you a drink?” a woman asked, sitting down opposite Sherlock in the worn out old booth. He started to reply with a scathing remark, but when he looked up into laughing green eyes, brighter than anything in nature, he paused. A Moriarty’s uniform tee shirt had been swapped out for a floral blouse and a vintage leather jacket. There were paint stains on her jeans and around the bed of her nails, and her curls were down today so she clearly hadn’t been working. She had a handmade knitted scarf on, draped around her neck, but there was something obviously missing there. 

“Your boss sent you,” Sherlock guessed, although he would never admit to guessing anything in his life. 

“Wrong,” Mary teased. She clasped her hands in front of her. “Why are you here?” 

“I’m on a case and you’re disturbing me,” he said. Mary seemed to consider this, her lips twisting to the side. 

“You asked for information. I could trade you, maybe. If you wanted,” she told him, leaning back casually. She seemed nervous, which he noted as unusual. 

“I’ve had a visit from your boss. I doubt there’s anything else you could tell me,” Sherlock replied with a frown, lingering on the knowledge that she was an artist of some kind. John tended to bring home more professional women like secretaries, teachers or lawyers. Punk rocker artist criminal bartenders… that was new.

Mary hummed in agreement. “Or anything I tell you, even if it is new, could be straight out of his mouth. I’m an excellent puppet.” 

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. His frown deepened. “So why are you here?” 

“Maybe I’m here to talk about your boyfriend. I haven’t seen him in the bar in the last few days. Is everything alright?” Mary asked, and she reached up as though she were about to fiddle with something, a piece of jewelry, maybe. When it met skin and air, her hand flattened itself over her collarbone to camouflage the movement. 

“John is out of town,” Sherlock said, and Mary seemed to breathe a small sigh of relief. Her lips quirked to the side in a thoughtful half-smile.

“You think I’m interested in him. Wrong,” she teased, leaning forward. She flushed. “I’m taken, actually. I’m rooting for you, gorgeous.” 

“We’re not- It’s not- Stop it. Shut up,” Sherlock snapped. He glared at her. She made him uncomfortable in a way that made him wonder if this was how other people felt when he deduced them. This woman, she made him feel like she saw everything he tried to hide. 

“Touchy, touchy. Come on, take a walk with me,” Mary said. She stood, idling by the table. “We can talk when we’re not here. You never know who might be listening.” 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said with a nod. 

“Perhaps. He’s so beautiful, isn’t he? Brilliant brain,” she sighed, and a loving expression crossed her face. It was… creepy. And hollow. “But he’s so much trouble. He does such bad things. He takes things that don’t belong to him. He means to kill you, you know.” 

“What did he take from you?” Sherlock asked, lowering his voice as the waitress passed close to them. 

“Ah-ah!” Mary said. She took his hand and pulled him to his feet, linking their arms together as they left the restaurant. “It’s a trade. I’ll ask you a question, you answer, and then I’ll do the same for you. That way it’s fair. Never bargain with fairies, Mr. Holmes.”

“There’s no such thing,” Sherlock said. Mary shook her head, but she changed the subject as they started away from the restaurant. It was bitterly cold and windy as they walked, huddled close together. 

“Do you love him? Real love? Not just, you know, desire?” she asked. 

Sherlock’s lips parted in shock. “I don’t see how that’s-” 

“You have questions you want to ask me, and I have answers, but you have to trade,” she repeated.

“Yes. I do,” he murmured. He cleared his throat. She nodded.  
“You’re lucky. Real love, that’s a strong kind of magic,” Mary said wistfully. “My love, he’s got me trapped. I can’t leave him, and I don’t want to, I’m sure, but, it’s not real if he has to keep you like a pet, is it? It’s not real if you can’t go home.”

Sherlock frowned. “Where is home?” 

“Are you sure you want to waste a question like that?” she asked, looking up at him. 

“No. I suppose not,” he agreed. “Do you love John? Is it John that has you trapped?” 

“Hmm, no,” Mary said with a sly smile. “We spend most of our time talking about you, actually.” 

“Interesting.” 

“How did someone take your freedom? Why can’t you leave? Is it blackmail?” Sherlock asked her, his brain attempting to make some sense of their vague conversation. She shook her head. 

“That’s too many questions. It’s not your turn again. If you ask a bunch, then I ask a bunch and then no one answers anything,” she said and her nonsensical nature caused him to wince. 

“Alright, let’s try a different one. What are you?” Sherlock asked bluntly. 

“Oh, that’s a good one. Something you’ve never heard of, I’m sure, but different than you,” Mary told him. “Have you told John about your… accident?” 

“Telling you would be a waste. You’re an intelligent person, I’m sure you’ve already guessed the answer,” Sherlock replied. They were nearing a park and he tugged her from the sidewalk towards a bench. 

“True. I could count that as an answer, though. Since you’ve essentially confirmed it,” she said. She sat, twisted to the side so she could face him as he sat down, one foot tucked up under her body. “Go ahead. Ask me.” 

“What is Moriarty holding over you that makes you have to stay with him?” Sherlock asked, although it took him several moments to think of that specific phrasing. Mary’s expression turned approving. 

“He’s stolen something from me, and I can’t be without it. I need it back,” she explained. Her teeth raked over the plump flesh of her lower lip, sucking in air to make a squeaking noise. “You’re leaving soon.” 

This was not phrased as a question. Sherlock frowned. “Should I?” 

“You’re going to need to know more about what’s happening to you. You won’t find that information at the bottom of a bathtub, I can tell you that much. If you stay,” Mary shrugged, giving an unhappy sigh, “there’s too many possibilities. John might get hurt.” 

“Might or will? Moriarty is planning something?” Sherlock asked. The pretense of a game was quickly crumbling. 

“I can’t tell you.” 

Their eyes locked, and they stared in silence for a long time. Finally, Sherlock spoke. “He has your necklace. It’s that precious to you that you can’t leave him?” 

“He holds my whole heart. Without him, I’m nothing,” Mary sighed. She looked down at her fingers, examining the paint stains. 

“You’re claiming you can’t leave your employer until he returns your necklace to you? That’s a little far fetched,” Sherlock told her. “Or there’s something else, something about what you are, that you’re not including in this story.” 

She glanced back up at him, and approval shone in her eyes. “It’s a disappointment, isn’t it, when you find out that ‘life is a fairy tale’ means the dark kind, not the happily ever after kind. It’s as you say. I cannot leave without it. I’m- I’m trapped. But I’ll never stop trying to go home. What a pretty little curse I’m in.” 

“There’s no such thing as curses,” Sherlock said firmly, stopping to glare down at her. 

“Says you. Don’t you think what befell you was a curse of some kind? You don’t believe in magic, but what you are, is that something logic can dictate?” Mary’s eyes turned fierce, temper flaring. She wasn’t intimidated by him as others had been before her. “You aren’t playing by human rules anymore. Wake up and smell the fairy dust.” 

“Then what am I playing at?” Sherlock asked her. Her lips twitched. 

“No, no. I believe it’s my turn,” she said, returning them to their game. She shivered. “I’m very invested in your relationship. Will you tell him you love him?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. He swallowed hard and looked away from her, observing people in the distance. “It’s not my area. I don’t do relationships. He’ll want more stability than I could offer him, even before my ‘accident’.” 

“Mmm,” Mary hummed, neither affirmative or negative. 

“I’m going to leave this conversation more confused than I was before, aren’t I?” he asked her, exhausted. 

“I hope not. Perhaps at first. From what John has told me, you’ll take what I’ve said and dissect it further, if you haven’t already. It’s what you do, you read between the lines,” Mary explained. “Which is good, because I rarely say anything outright.” 

“I’m learning that. What are you doing with John?” Sherlock demanded. 

“I’m making a friend,” Mary said. “I’ve learned over time that friends are more important than other things. With the exception of right now, I’m also not used to staying in one place too terribly long. I’m not your enemy nor am I your competition. If you can help me, I can help you, too.” 

“Help you get your necklace back,” Sherlock said, purposefully phrasing it as a statement not a question. Mary nodded.

“Anything else you want to know?” she asked, looking up at him with a grin. “I’ll give you a freebie. On the house.”

“You seem to do that a lot,” he observed, and it felt like a joke. “Yes. I have something I want to know.” 

“Anything,” Mary promised.

“What do you like to paint?”

***

It shouldn’t have been so easy to know that Sherlock hadn’t been home in as long as John but to the physician’s trained eye, it was child’s play. Perhaps that was giving doctors too much credit. There were doctors every day that missed things, made mistakes or blundered through diagnosing.

“They see but do not observe,” Sherlock drawled in John’s imagination, his face full of both mischief and disdain. Mischief because he would have been teasing John, disdain for most medical practitioners. It would have made John smile if only Sherlock were actually there. The apartment told the story of Sherlock’s absence. Maybe a case had taken him away? The holidays could be a mudery time of year. Probably because people were forced to spend too much time with their families as John had been. He could even sympathize; he’d often considered murder when put through a Christmas with Harry’s egg nog soaked inuendoes and criticisms.

John twisted the thermostat up before climbing the second set of stairs to his bedroom. He plopped his worn leather duffel on his bed and stomped back downstairs, rubbing his hands together. The cold air was his first clue. Sherlock wasn’t prissy about cold, of course. On a stakeout, he could go for days on end and not notice if it were cold or hot. But in their cozy home Sherlock preferred a more liveable climate. Sighing, John set to work warming up. A hot mug of tea sounded like a novel idea while he waited for Sherlock to pop back in, and he set to work filling up the kettle and setting it on the gas stovetop. Usually he would have just grabbed a beer but being around Harry always gave him cause to sober up for a few days. He briefly flipped through some take-out menus while he waited for the water to boil, wondering if Sherlock would be eating.

He slid his phone out of his pocket and texted Sherlock. Are you eating today? - JW

If Sherlock were on a case, surely he would have texted John, if for no other reason than to extract him from the rest of the Watsons. He knew that John hated spending time with his family and even though Lestrade’s gang would have people believe Sherlock had no feelings, he did sometimes show that he cared in his own way. Yeah, they’d had that fight but he’d brought John coffee that one day and- 

Ok. That was a lie John refused to tell himself. Things had continued to be tense, but he definitely trusted Sherlock when he said he wasn’t using. But what, then? What could he be hiding from John? Why couldn’t -

Nope. Stop right there, Watson. John shook his head, then tilted to one side to crack his neck. First off, he wasn’t about to indulge in those whiny, lovesick thoughts such as ‘what if he doesn’t need me’. Sherlock might not really need him, but John never doubted his place at Sherlock’s side (or beck and call, depending on the day of the week). Secondly, maybe if he’d stayed around Sherlock would have stayed as well. He mulled this over as he took his tea into the living room. The empty chairs next to the unused fireplace made him uneasy. It had a strange kind of foreboding. He stooped to make a fire, thankful that they had one that still worked. In college he’d had a fireplace in his apartment but it was walled over. Happy that the fire was helping drive the chill out of the room, he stood for a moment admiring his handiwork before remembering he was hungry. He’d left his phone in the kitchen and he went to get it, noticing no new texts from Sherlock.

In the end, he ordered entirely too much Chinese food. He wasn’t a fan of Sherlock’s usual, but at least there’d be leftovers.

Still no response from Sherlock.

John started to gnaw on his lip, worry growing. He texted Mycroft. Where was Sherlock?

No reply from Mycroft either. He had a sneaking suspicion the brothers were doing something together. Well, why not. It was the season, after all.

Sighing, he settled into his chair and cracked open his laptop, clicking around on his usual websites. It was probably good to have the apartment to himself for a little while, anyway. Thanksgiving with Harry had been ridiculously trying, filling John with anxiety and a hint of depression. It hadn’t curbed the frustration that had built around his friendship with Sherlock, and it certainly hadn’t cleared the detective from his mind if today’s train of thought was any kind of indicator. His password hadn’t changed and his web history was the same as when he’d left. Another sign that Sherlock hadn’t been home.

He was about to text Mycroft again when the doorbell rang. That would probably be the food, then. He put his laptop to the side and grabbed his wallet, jogging down the stairs to throw the door open.

Sherlock stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky in disbelief. Night had fallen in the time since John had come home and so had snow, dusting everything and ridding the street of anyone but the two of them. Snow glittered as it stuck to Sherlock’s unruly curls, swirling all around them.

“It’s snowing, John,” Sherlock said, finally meeting John’s gaze. He grinned madly. “John, it’s snowing and I’m outside.”

John snorted, enjoying the boyish expression on Sherlock’s face. “You’ve seen snow before, Sherlock.”

“But-” the tall detective stopped himself, but he couldn’t contain his wonder. He looked back up to the sky, muttering to himself, “I wonder what makes it different.”

“Makes what different? The snow?” John asked, stepping outside, holding out his hand to catch a snowflake. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, but John had a feeling that he was missing something. He grinned at John again. “Shall we go in?”

John smiled, the worry melting out of his heart for the moment. Whatever Sherlock had been up to, wherever he’d been while John was away, it didn’t really matter because he was home now and he was adorably smitten by the idea of snow. “Sure. Let’s get warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things real quick:  
> \- When I lived in Philly, even though EMR was definitely a thing, I worked for an old school doc who still required paper charts and double booked his patients and only had one receptionist (me) so this chapter is a bit of a tribute to him. 
> 
> \- As we go on, please note that terms like 'infected' and other disease-like words may appear. I'm trying to be sensitive with everything in the news lately but if you're likely to be triggered, maybe skip?
> 
> \- This is a gift for my writing partner, who I've been writing secret Sherlock fic with since 2012. I wrote an original Mary Morstan character that we both are in love with and I just hate not writing her, so we're making her an original character in this by changing her last name. Just wanted to update you for future chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags**
> 
> \- No beta. American Philly Canon because that's my favorite city in the world. OC/Ooc Mary character (end notes explain)
> 
> \- This is a rewrite of Aquatic Equation Drabbles, so there will be some similarities/reworked scenes. This chapter has the last of the original scenes in it and is new content from here on out.

“So it was her stepfather all along?” John asked, a surprised grin spreading across his face. The snow continued to fall outside, silencing the normally busy streets and blanketing the city in white. They both sat bundled in their chairs, feet not quite touching, trying to keep warm. Sherlock had been entertaining John with stories of his old cases. Sherlock nodded, lips twisting up at the sides in an almost smile.

“He was a special effects master in his previous career,” the detective explained, reaching for a glass of whiskey at his side. They’d abandoned the tea as the evening progressed. “It was quite easy for him to disguise himself. If she hadn’t had a latex allergy, he might have gotten away with it, too.” 

“Oh, God,” John giggled, taking a sip of his own drink. “That’s something you’d see on Jerry Springer. ‘My mother’s husband is also my boyfriend’. Poor girl!” 

“You can see it. It’s episode three forty-eight, I think,” Sherlock murmured, smirking when John’s jaw dropped. “I’m joking, of course. She did write a book about it, though, which did quite well.” 

John reached out with his foot and playfully kicked Sherlock in the shin. Perhaps he put his foot back too close to his friend’s but it was still chilly and John’s toes were cold. “I can’t believe this world sometimes.” 

“Oh, I’m learning there are harder things to believe in this world than a case of familial greed.” The bitter, half-muttered way Sherlock said it gave John cause for concern. 

“Care to fill me in?” he asked, giving Sherlock another little kick.

“Not really anything specific,” Sherlock sighed, draining his drink and putting it to the side. “That’s not even a particularly strange case by our standards. We’ve seen much more bizarre.” 

John sensed the lie in the words but he was willing to let it slide. “I believe you. I could tell you stories of some of my girlfriends worse than that.” 

“I’m sure,” Sherlock agreed with a twinkle in his eye that said he didn’t believe John, either. 

“What? I’ve had strange experiences!” 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Sherlock said. That impish grin, which John thought was incredibly charming, worked its way onto Sherlock’s features. “Just not with any of your girlfriends.” 

“And I suppose you can deduce that?” John asked. On a normal night, a question such as that might have caused him to feel flustered or annoyed, but the alcohol was starting to warm him up and give him those hazy, fond feelings he liked to ignore. 

“Some of it,” Sherlock admitted.

John slid down in his chair, which caused his legs to spread. He smiled. “Well. Go on, then. Deduce it.” 

Sherlock paused for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face. “Some of it is elementary, of course. Some I know only because of the close, personal knowledge I have of your dating habits or watching how you interact with others. Despite rushing into danger and adventure, craving the adrenaline rush as badly as a junkie needs a hit,” Sherlock paused when John gave him a disapproving look, “the girls you pick are often bland and safe. Vanilla. They’re sweet, kind and practically interchangeable. It’s half of why I never bother to remember their names. The few male encounters-” 

“Hang on, I’m not-” 

“Gay, I know. More on that in a moment,” Sherlock continued. “The few male encounters you’ve experienced were, predictably, at college and while overseas. One night stands, I’m sure. Most sex involving any truly bizarre fetishes occur on the second or third date, so you’ve never had anything more exciting than perhaps a request to tie someone up, which leads me to your constant insistence of your heterosexuality.” 

“How does that-” 

“Easy, my dear John.” If John noticed a slight slur in Sherlock’s words, he didn’t mention it. “Sexuality is fluid yet you insist on denying your own experiences and putting yourself in a box. A sweet, vanilla box.” Sherlock finished with a confident smirk.

John huffed and knocked his knees into Sherlock’s, blushing. “How did you know about college?” 

“Intro to Human Anatomy,” Sherlock replied.

“Every doctor takes that course,” John muttered, pursing his lips. 

“Yes, but only you keep your old text book under your bed and there’s a rather telling inscription on page two forty-six,” Sherlock said. He grinned.

“Dick!” John laughed, smiling back at Sherlock. “I hid that from you!” 

“Yes, with a few of your army photos,” Sherlock laughed. “Very nice, Captain. It was easy to deduce by the angle at which those were taken that it had been a male photographer and one who was very… familiar… with your work.” 

If John had been blushing before, he was positively beet red now. He reached for his almost empty glass. “Oh God. I’ll never have any secrets living here. It’s not really fair, is it? It’s not like I can retaliate.” 

“I suppose you are referring to my brother’s implications that I am a virgin?” Sherlock scoffed. He didn’t want to get up but the decanter was not next to either of them and he would need more whiskey for a conversation like this. He stood, going to the mantle where they’d left it for some ungodly reason. He settled back down in his chair, putting the bottle on his side table. “Please, John, even you can be more imaginative than that.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Data collection. My personal disdain for human interaction would never stop me from collecting data on all manner of subjects,” Sherlock purred. In the firelight, his face took on a predatory quality. In another life, he would have been a great vampire.

“And what kind of data did you like to collect?” John probed. It was new information for John. For their whole friendship, there were a few scattered moments where John had felt something, and thought it was reciprocated, but if John was adamant about his straightness, Sherlock was just as adamant about his solitary nature. Married to his work? Well, even married men had affairs sometimes. It was still a stretch for him to really see Sherlock participating in any type of sex with another human being.

“I’m hardly one to kiss and tell, as the saying goes,” Sherlock replied, giving John a reproachful glance. “Although, I will say Victor had an enthusiasm for eyeliner. He was always very amorous if I smudged some on, but that was when I was much younger.” 

The idea of Sherlock in eyeliner seemed to have John’s brain flatlining, judging by the expression on his face. After a few seconds, he recovered, managing to sputter out, “And Victor is?” 

“Oh, you know, an old friend of sorts,” Sherlock said, evading the question. “And before you get maudlin, it’s not that I don’t trust you with intimate information. It was a complicated friendship to label.” 

“Ah, I see,” John replied, not seeing anything at all. It was too much information to take in.

“You remind me of him, a bit,” Sherlock said, and he leaned forward, grinning at John like a Cheshire cat. “Short. Blonde.” 

“Everyone is short compared to you,” John grumbled, but he was enjoying the way their knees were knocking together as well as having Sherlock’s undivided attention. The awkwardness of the last few weeks seemed far away as he leaned forward to grab the whiskey from the opposite end table and added a bit more to his own glass. When he settled the bottle again, his drink in his hands, he didn’t lean back. They were close now, gazing at each other. Suddenly, the apartment didn’t seem so cold anymore. 

“No need to sound bitter,” Sherlock murmured. “He was friendly and well-liked by others. I’m told he balanced out my cold nature. In theory, we made sense, as friends. You and I make sense in practice, which is where it really counts. 

“We do?” John asked.

“Of course.” Sherlock’s eyes softened. “You… You’re imperative.” 

“To your work?” John prompted, flashing an impish smile. Sherlock returned his grin, but it was small and his eyes were sad. He nodded.

“To my work, of course.” The lanky, dark-haired man leaned away, immediately causing John to feel a chill. His eyes focused on a random spot on the floor, a sad aura emanating from him. He was quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours?” John asked. His tone was light, trying to regain the closeness that he’d felt just a moment ago. Sherlock shook his head, and his eyes returned to John’s briefly, misery edging in. 

“Nothing at all. Just a stray thought. I’m exhausted,” Sherlock lied, standing to stretch. He cleared his throat. “Goodnight, John. Leave the glasses, I’ll wash them in the morning.” 

He was halfway down the hall before John could manage, “No, you won’t!” 

“Correct.”

***

[Answer your phone! - GL]

[SERIOUSLY! ANSWER UR PHONE! -GL]

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the text.

[The case has been taken over by my brother. There is nothing I can do. Just know that it was solved. - SH]

[NOT GOOD ENOUGH. WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT? - GL]

Sherlock grimaced at the appalling grammar before replying. [All capital letters will not inspire me to divulge any more information to you. - SH]

It was sure to annoy Lestrade that the government had taken the seemingly run of the mill case of Dr. Michaelson and his wife away from the police but, with the overlap in the disappearance of Dr. Thurman, it was unavoidable. On the positive side, Sherlock’s already decreased need for sleep was seemingly non-existent now that he had crossed over into fish territory. Which is how he found himself breaking into the infamous Moriarty’s Pub in the early morning hours of the day. 

It was too easy. 

Picking the locks, avoiding the security cameras (there weren’t many as Moriarty was a man who relied more on reputation than the police for safeguarding his place), and disabling the alarm (oil patterns on the keypad) were all too easy. 

The pub was downright sinister without people inhabiting it. The shadows of the chairs that had been flipped onto the table, legs reaching up, created a menacing, dark forest. The lock on the back office was child’s play, and the two-way mirror allowed him to look out onto the main floor of the establishment. There should have been some kind of trouble. He’d expected Moriarty here, waiting for him, or at the very least a guard or Mary. 

But there was no one. 

The office itself was entirely wrong for a restaurant. Sherlock had been on several cases that had taken him behind the scenes at bars and restaurants and every single office he’d seen had been the same. They’d all been bland and worn out with rickety office chairs and slow moving, decades-old computers. This office was immaculate and furnished in the style of an old library. The single office chair behind the antique desk was upholstered in leather and seemed fairly new. There was no extra layer of grease, no old promotional material catching dust in the corners. There were two filing cabinets with standard employee documents and an obnoxious mermaid statue in the middle of the desk. A few full length bookshelves lined the walls, and Sherlock suspected a safe was behind one. 

Predictable. 

He slid the bookshelf back over the safe after looking inside. The patterns of wear on the wallpaper suggested this was not the only shelf that moved. He studied the signs of wear on the floor and soon enough he was finding the correct spot to apply pressure. The second bookshelf swung out to reveal a hidden staircase. Sherlock winced. It was horridly gothic and cliche. An evil villain, a hidden staircase, a damsel in distress? 

Sherlock was expecting the staircase, of course. In his observations of the exterior of the building, he’d noticed a few things about the building next door. The fine arts gallery appeared to have no means of entering it’s basement from the outside. He’d been inside briefly and the owner had essentially confirmed to him that there was no way to access the basement level of the building. 

He descended into the darkness. 

Another keypad, in better condition and routinely cleaned, made it harder to guess the passcode but not impossible. Sherlock frowned.

Everything was too easy. 

The door unlocked to reveal a large room that encompassed the entire basement of the building next door. It was reinforced and probably sound proof. Unfortunately, Sherlock had been correct in thinking everything had opened to him too simply. What had once been a lab of some kind, with tanks of all sizes, had been emptied of all of it’s test subjects. There was only a suggestion that there had ever been any life in them The remaining specimen, and that was the only word Sherlock could use, had been dissected and laid out on the slab specifically for him.

Dr. Thurman’s face was frozen in horror, suggesting that the dissection had taken place while she was alive, but the lack of blood spray said that she’d been killed elsewhere and placed here after. Her body should have been human as she’d dried out a long time ago, but her spiny tail remained intact. It was fascinating and horrifying all at once.

Sherlock wondered what would happen to him if he were dissected alive. Would he die in his inhuman form? Frozen forever with that appendage he loathed so much?

He left the room empty handed, not even knowing exactly what he’d been looking for. Evidence, sure, but this was something he had not been able to predict. He locked the door behind him and came back up the stairs.

Moriarty was leaning against his solid desk looking smug. His crisp, modern suit was at odds with the antique decor of the office. He was grinning as the panels slid back into place, hiding the secret passage once more. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” Moriarty pretended to sigh. “Such a bore.” 

[Have been arrested. Don’t wait up. -SH]

[I’m sure Mycroft will post bail eventually. - SH]

***

Mycroft was less than amused at needing to bail his brother out and the subsequent conversation left a bitter taste in Sherlock’s mouth. He couldn’t shake the images of Dr. Thurman’s abused body from his mind. It was a unique position to be in, knowing about the murder and why it had occurred but being unable to tell the police because of a slimy scaly appendage he needed to keep covered. He attempted to focus, to analyze the sample in front of him, but he couldn’t stop the worry from bubbling up.

Mary was terrifyingly correct and Sherlock hated it.

He was going to have to leave. 

He blinked, letting his eyes stay closed a fraction of a second longer, and behind his eyelids he saw Dr. Thurman’s face, frozen in pain and horror. She’d been split open down the middle and her organs were missing, possibly sent to unknown sourced for further analysis. Her magnificent tail, a pufferfish tail, put to a deadlier use to murder her own lover. Obviously Dr. Michaelson had kept her hidden in the laboratories of the aquarium. She was diabetic, he needed to continue to inject her with her insulin to keep her alive, and she had used this opportunity to convince the cephalopod to enact her revenge on Dr. Michaelson before being turned over to Moriarty. 

Moriarty was not going to thank him for liberating his other acquisition. John would be at risk as long as Sherlock remained. He couldn’t risk it. 

He sat back, away from the table, before deciding to pack up his research. Molly would be back any second and he couldn’t risk that she would be infected. Something in the compound gave a choice as to the species of the animal chosen. However the transformation had taken place for Dr. Thurman, she had become a spiky, venomous thing. Sherlock’s own tail mimicked the dead fish he’d stolen, obviously left for him on purpose by Moriarty. The man’s sense of humor was disturbing to say the least. Sherlock would have been a beautiful addition to the collection, in Moriarty’s mind, but it was not a place Sherlock ever intended to be. 

He was not expecting Mary to be waiting for him in front of Baker Street, bouncing back and forth from one foot to the other, her body a frenetic source of swirling energy. It was far from her typical cool behavior. Her cheeks were flushed despite the cold and when she saw him, she hurled herself into his arms. “What have you done?”

“Stop that!” Sherlock said, pushing her back. “I’ve done nothing.” 

“I’m not stupid. I’m not like the others, you can tell me. You have it, don’t you?” she asked, once more molding herself to his tall form. Every attempt to push her back only seemed to encourage her to continue attempting to climb him like a tree. “I’ll be good, I won’t leave- just give it back.” 

“Why are you doing this? Stop- stop!” Sherlock said, putting his large hands on her upper arms, lifting her until she was at arm’s length once more and holding her there. “What’s happening to you?” 

“I don’t know! You must have it, give it to me, please,” Mary begged, tugging him down by his curly hair so they were eye level. Madness shone in her verdant eyes. “I don’t know how you got it from him, but you did .You’re so brilliant. Why are you so brilliant? Beautiful, clever man.” 

He really should have seen it coming, but he was tired and women were much more John’s area than Sherlock’s. 

Her lips were full and soft, and her body heat was as fiery as her hair in the cold winter air. She was small, but strong enough that she was holding him in place as she assaulted his mouth with hers. 

“Oh, God.” 

Sherlock pulled back at the sound of John’s voice, finally getting the lamprey in his arms to release him. “John!” 

“Don’t um, don’t mind me,” John said. The plastic shopping bags rattled in his arms as he attempted to slide past them to go up the stairs. His hand was shaking as he unlocked the door. “Take your time, I’ll just uh, I’ll be upstairs-” 

He was in the door before Sherlock could say anything else. His heart felt heavy in his chest as it thudded unhappily. 

“Mary, go home. I told you I would take your case but this behavior is abominable,” Sherlock scolded her. Her cheeks mimicked the flush on his but she seemed to nod at the command. 

“Give it back, Sherlock,” she whispered. Her red curls whipped around her face. “It only gets worse the longer you have it.” She reached up with both hands to cup his face, caressing his cheeks, before she turned and walked away. He shook his head, but then his eyes went from her retreating form to the upstairs windows of his apartment. 

John was upset.

The tension was palpable as Sherlock slid out of his warm coat, hanging it on the hooks next to the door. He could hear things in the kitchen slamming, not overly loud but certainly snapping brightly in the quiet room. John was fuming as he put the groceries away. 

“You’re upset,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question, but he hesitated over the words. 

“No, I’m not,” John snapped. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “You can- It was,” he shook his head. “No. I’m not upset.” 

“Lie. Why are you lying?” Sherlock asked, moving closer. “Are you jealous?” 

“No.” But the glass he’d taken out of the cupboard had clinked threateningly as he smacked it down on the countertop. He reached in the fridge for the water pitcher and poured a glass, taking a long drink. 

“You’re going to break all of our glassware if you continue abusing them in this manner,” Sherlock stated. His voice turned pleading. “John. It’s for a case.” 

“What sort of case has Mary sucking your face off in broad daylight?” John snapped, but then he shook his head. “I don’t want to know. Never mind.” 

“As usual you have leapt to all of the wrong deductions. I am not interested in Mary. With Mycroft’s case closed, I’m handling a minor private matter for her,” Sherlock explained. John closed his eyes and Sherlock knew he was counting in his head, attempting to rid himself of whatever emotion he was having. “You really need to fire that therapist. You’re only working yourself up more.” 

“Shut. Up.” 

“John.” Sherlock moved to stand in front of the shorter man, backing him up against a counter. He gripped him, one hand on each shoulder. “John, look at me.” 

John’s eyes were the most perfect blue. It wasn’t a bright, vibrant blue but rather a solid, comfortable color. The storm within them raged, but John’s gaze didn’t falter. A pucker formed between Sherlock’s brows as he considered the information there. 

“You’re interested in her,” Sherlock stated. Without breaking his gaze, John’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips before retreating so he could press them together in a straight line. After a moment, one word was ground out.

“Wrong.” 

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side, and his hands slid down John’s arms to grip the man’s wrists. As he found John’s pulse, beating too rapidly, John’s pupils dilated turning the blue of his eyes deeper. Sherlock’s mouth formed an ‘o’ as he realized it hadn’t been-

“Correct deduction,” John whispered, voice hoarse. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he continued to move forward, plastering himself against his doctor. Suddenly, he couldn’t get close enough. He wanted to open John up and crawl inside and live there. John would probably object to Sherlock’s residence in his chest, however. Although, perhaps not. Their mouths met, and it wasn’t just Sherlock pressing in. John’s short, competent fingers were winding through Sherlock’s hair, holding him close.

Sherlock’s phone went off and it was enough to startle them both, causing John to elbow the glass of water he’d poured. It fell off the counter, spilling onto Sherlock. 

“Oh! Shit, sorry,” John said, but Sherlock shook his head. 

“It’s fine. Excuse me for a moment, it’s Mycroft,” he said, gasping out his words as the gills started to move beneath his scarf. He rushed to his room, slamming the door closed, but unfortunately he wasn’t in time to save his trousers and he hit the floor with a loud thud. 

“Sherlock?!”

“I’m fine! I tripped,” the detective groaned, reaching for his phone. He slid the answer button. “What?”

There was a pause as Mycroft listened to the sound of Sherlock’s labored breathing, deducing his actions, no doubt. 

“I assume you are aware of what a ridiculous decision your current position is?” Mycroft asked. Though his tone was even and smooth, Sherlock could detect the stress that was being barely concealed. 

“Fuck off,” Sherlock groaned again. He’d landed on one of his fins wrong and it felt bruised. He sucked in a gasping breath. Using the shredded remains of his trousers, he started to try and dry off his scales, hoping to reverse the change before John decided to storm the bedroom searching for him. 

Arousal as a mer- No. Arousal as a fish was an interesting experience.

“That’s what you were attempting to do, brother, and I shall leave you to it. I merely need to go over a few details with you,” Mycroft told him.

“Fine. Make it quick,” Sherlock snapped. “I have things to do.” 

“I wouldn’t call John a thing to his face, Sherlock,” Mycroft sneered before launching into the reason for his call.

***

Where. That was the question.

Somewhere that would be safe from Moriarty. Somewhere that it wouldn’t be easily discovered. 

What were the parameters of such an object? If he took it with him, she would apparently follow.  
As she stated, she would never stop searching for it. If he left it behind, would she stay here and guard the thing he held most dear?

Sherlock turned the key over in his hand, much as Moriarty had when he’d visited Baker Street. It didn’t feel any different than any other key, although it was old and the patina left it with a rougher texture, it was nothing out of the ordinary that he could see. It was not lost on him that unusual things such as himself were often hiding in plain sight. The chain had been patched and repaired over time with other bits of ribbon and mismatched chain. The metal was rubbed almost to a polish where it had sat in the crease of her neck for years, but in other places it was filthy. He tucked it in his pocket, still pondering where he would need to hide it. 

He climbed the stairs to John’s room. It was always a gamble, looking in on John, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. Mycroft’s ill-timed interruption had killed the mood in their apartment and neither of them had been willing to discuss the change in their friendship. Instead, they’d settled in for an awkward night of old television and takeout as neither of them felt like cooking. Sherlock’s hand hovered over John’s doorknob, wondering what would happen if the doctor did wake up.

Sherlock would crawl into bed with him, that’s what would happen. He would crawl over the shorter man’s body and begin tasting him, cataloguing every inch of skin and committing it to memory. He would- 

There was nothing he wouldn’t do. 

It was late enough that Sherlock was almost sure he would be deeply asleep and not easy to disturb. Sherlock peeked in. His army doctor lay in bed, sleeping soundly. There was no twitching or signs of distress, just a peaceful expression on his face. It was cliche, but he did look younger when he slept. There were still lines etched onto his skin. That was a side effect of aging, but with his facial muscles relaxed, everything appeared smoother. Sherlock’s fingers itched to trace the patterns there, to memorize every noon and indentation on John’s body. Slowly and quietly, he closed the door and went back downstairs. 

The hiding place would need to be a challenge. Neither John nor Mary were stupid.

After he’d successfully hidden the treasure where he thought it would be safe, he stood back and looked around the room. Sherlock would rarely admit to sentiment, but he had to acknowledge that Baker Street held an attraction to him. It was warm and comfortable. It was where John smiled at him, made him hot beverages and scolded him for experiments in the refrigerator. It was where they laughed together after cases and where Mrs. Hudson cleaned up after him despite ‘not being his housekeeper’. It was where they’d now had their first kiss. 

Baker Street was home.

His eyes scanned the piles of paper and the comfortable sofa. They lingered on the cushions of John’s red chair, a forgotten cup of something that was still on the side table. His violin, sitting near the fireplace. He strode forward to pick up the instrument. He stroked the wood fondly. 

A few soft tunes couldn’t hurt.

He raised the instrument to his shoulder, tucking his chin in, and began to play a lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things real quick:  
> \- As we go on, please note that terms like 'infected' and other disease-like words may appear. I'm trying to be sensitive with everything in the news lately but if you're likely to be triggered, maybe skip?
> 
> \- This is a gift for my writing partner, who I've been writing secret Sherlock fic with since 2012. I wrote an original Mary Morstan character that we both are in love with and I just hate not writing her, so we're making her an original character in this by changing her last name. Just wanted to update you for future chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags**
> 
> \- No beta because I'm a heathen. American Philly Canon because that's my favorite city in the world. OC/Ooc Mary character (end notes explain)

Late night bled into early morning and still Sherlock could not sleep. He’d bathed, put on a fresh suit, buttoning the tiny black buttons of his deep aubergine shirt with stiff, tired fingers. He holed up in his bedroom, listening to the symphony of sounds that John created as he prepared for his own day. He was running a little bit late today, causing the usual shower and shave to be shortened in favor of making coffee to take with him. Sherlock could hear the spring of the toaster as two pieces of bread were pushed in and the soft slick of the refrigerator door being opened for jam. 

Image: John’s gently tanned skin, laying across the kitchen table, sticky, succulent jam smeared on- 

Sherlock shook his head. That was what he got for not sleeping. 

He hoped that John would assume Sherlock’s door being closed meant that he was attempting to get some rest, even though it was exactly the opposite. John was better about respecting societal boundaries than Sherlock, so it was a logical assumption that he would act according to Sherlock’s wishes. For a few tense moments, Sherlock listened as footsteps came down the hall, halting just in front of the door, but the knob never turned. There was a gentle sound of something being set down in front of the door and then the footsteps retreated once more. Keys jingled. Boots stomped. The door downstairs opened and closed. 

Sherlock opened his bedroom door and looked down. 

John had made him toast with butter and honey, the way he preferred his own breakfast on the rare occasions he ate it. He felt the corners of his mouth twitching as he picked up the dish, a tiny smile playing on his lips. John had never left him breakfast before. It was pleasant. 

He took the plate and went to the front window, crunching down on a piece as he watched John walking away. A flash of red caught his eye. Mary was following John. 

Interesting. 

The experiment was yielding the impossible yet desired results. He would need to investigate further. Sherlock crunched the remainder of the toast in large, quick bites before sliding his warm coat over his arms. Further observation was required. 

She was an interesting person, this Mary Willowmere. She had no history or background information, Mycroft could find no trace of her in his systems beyond the last two years, and yet here she was, stalking his roommate. He wished he had more time to get to know her and he understood why she’d attracted John. His subconscious addiction to danger had been attracted to her. If Sherlock hadn’t been a factor, he knew that John would have pursued Mary. 

He placed himself in an alcove near the hospital building John worked in. He could easily see the front exits and it was John’s habit to use those, despite there being exits to the parking garages as well as the side doors and emergency room doors. Mary made no attempt to converse with John as far as he could see. John was a block in front of her, puffing his way through the frigid winters day, with Mary trailing along behind. It was graceful, watching her stalk him, and he considered another detestable fish pun about swimming upstream. John entered the office building and Mary took up a bench in front of the doors, seemingly waiting for him to come back out. 

Sherlock frowned. It would be a long time until John came out. 

And she just sat there, huddled in that beat-up leather jacket she wore. She hunched over and eventually started to shiver. He couldn’t be sure, from the distance he was at, but it appeared her lips were growing pale as she waited. He considered offering her his coat but the results of his experiment were too important to muddle. She couldn’t know he was watching her. 

Still. 

Mary sat on the bench for hours. Eventually, John did come out through the front entrance. Sherlock checked the time on his phone. It was a reasonable time for lunch and he knew John hadn’t packed anything this morning other than his coffee. Mary hopped to her feet, startling John, who hadn’t noticed her where she was sitting. 

They started speaking. Mary was gesturing, seeming very enthusiastic, with John seemingly attempting to calm her down. He was looking from side to side- was he wondering if this was a set up?

Well. He wasn’t exactly wrong.

John gestured with his arms, seeming to hold both out in a question however Mary took it as an invitation and Sherlock was treated to a reenactment of what John had witnessed at Baker Street yesterday. Sherlock watched as Mary jumped into John’s arms, flinging hers around his neck in a tight grip, trying to mold herself to him. Her lips pressed hard to his. She was kissing his John-

But no. They hadn’t really talked about that yet, had they? 

Interesting. He hadn’t anticipated the heat of jealousy to blossom in his chest, yet there it was, causing his cold cheeks to flush and warm. It was an unusual feeling and he was unaccustomed to the intensity of it. 

And John… he didn’t seem to be pushing her away as quickly as Sherlock had. He frowned, watching the doctor’s hands find their way to Mary’s waist, never pulling from her mouth as he gripped her curvy hips. He was holding her. Of course, they hadn’t spoken of their own kiss yesterday, but he’d denied feeling anything for Mary when Sherlock had asked. Finally, John pulled back and smoothed Mary’s hair from her face in a tender gesture that caused Sherlock’s heart to sting. John was saying something, speaking to her, and the expression on his face was passionate. If only he could hear what John was telling her. Not enough data, indeed.

Sherlock’s phone started buzzing in his pocket. It was a number he didn’t recognize. His lips turned down. “Speak.” 

“Feeling a bit testy, are we?” Moriarty said, his tone gleeful. “That’s why you shouldn’t keep pets, Sherlock. They always run away from home.” 

“People aren’t pets,” Sherlock said, unable to tear his gaze away from John. It seemed Mary was attempting to kiss him again and this time John seemed reluctant. 

“Aren’t they? I bet he’d look good in a leash, Sherlock. I already know she does,” Moriarty purred, innuendo coating his words, thick like corn syrup. 

He had no response to that. He continued to watch Mary and John. 

“You could still be something great, my dear,” Moriarty continued in his sickeningly sweet, sing-song voice. “Your brain, your special talents. Together we would be incandescent. Electrifying.” 

The only person Sherlock cared to be anything with was currently locking lips with a cursed woman. His lips twitched. “What is she? Is there a name for it?” 

“You’re such an angel, Sherlock,” Moriarty sneered, hitting the ‘k’ sound hard. “Always thinking of others. You can’t save either of them, you know. She’ll come back to me, she always does, only this time I think I’ve run out of uses for her.” 

“Loyalty isn’t real if blackmail is involved,” Sherlock replied, averting his eyes from John. He turned away and started down the street, noticing when security cameras on buildings twisted to follow his path. 

“You’re no expert on loyalty, Sherlock. That’s your dog kissing my seal,” Moriarty pointed out. He made a dramatic, gasping sound. “And just after your first kiss!” 

Sherlock paused. “I hope you enjoyed the show.” 

“Of course, my aquatic friend,” the evil genius simpered. “It was like a puppet play. Now be a good boy and say yes, Sherlock. Let’s watch this world burn together.” 

“No.” 

“What a shame. I was so looking forward to having you,” Moriarty said. The call ended. Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and continued his walk. Buildings and sidewalks seemed to merge together as his brain swirled, running over the data he had at hand. He couldn’t go home, so he ended up near the water, staring out over the Delaware at New Jersey. John liked to come here on his walks. Usually when Sherlock had exploded something in the apartment or they’d had a fight (‘Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I don’t want to eat anything that’s been next to whatever is rotting on the second shelf!’). 

He tapped his lips with two fingers. He managed to duck under the staircase by the public restrooms just as the sky opened up, pouring out waves of torrential icy rain. He clutched his coat tighter against his thin body, mercurial eyes gazing thoughtfully at the Ben Franklin Bridge. 

He had some thinking to do, and it was a whole pack of patches worth of a problem, and here he was without any nicotine in sight.

***

John’s heart sank into his shoes. He released Mary, watching the tall figure walking away from them. Could Sherlock have thought- Had he seen-? Of course, he’d seen, Watson. Mary was already tugging at his arm, pressing her body against it, not giving him the opportunity to chase his friend.

“Mary, Mary! Stop!” John told her, trying to set her back. “God, what’s gotten into you?” 

“You’re so strong, John,” she said appreciatively, stroking up his arm and over his shoulders. She started working at the buttons on his jacket. “You must know how I feel about you. We’ve been talking for so long. I think about you all the time-” 

“Stop!” John snapped, trying to pull away. He took a few steps in the direction of where he’d seen Sherlock disappear, but the man was gone and John’s lunch break was almost over. Mary seized the opportunity to hug John from behind, holding him tightly. 

“John, darling, please don’t say no,” she begged. Her hands slipped into his pockets, squeezing at his stomach. “Clever, clever John. My brave army man. Forget the detective-” 

“Mary, no! You’ve caused enough of a mess,” John said, wiggling out of her grip again. Her nights of lifting heavy trays full of beer and pub food had made her very strong, indeed, and he was surprised at how much of a challenge it was to get away from her. “Stop it. Go home, go to work, go literally anywhere else.” 

“Please, John. I just, I need you,” Mary pleaded, her voice cracking in distress. “I need it. If it’s about Sherlock, that’s all over now, I swear. I just need it back, please.” 

“What do you need, Mary?” John asked. He gripped her by the chin, forcing her desperate green eyes to focus on his face. “What is it that you need?” 

“N-Nothing John. It’s alright. I’ll- I’ll go, if that’s what you want. Of course it is, how stupid of me, you’re at work. I’ll- I’ll talk to you later. Please,” Mary told him, pressing a hand over his heart. “I love you. Please, I just want what’s best for you. You’re so beautiful, John.” 

A tense headache was forming behind his tired eyes. “You love me? But you said that you were just my friend. The no ‘love line’ thing, remember?” 

“It came out of nowhere. It was so sudden, but I love you. Please don’t say no,” Mary whimpered, and she didn’t give him a chance to reply. She took off, darting through the city streets, almost knocking into people as she ran from him. He shook his head. Crazy girl.

He took out his phone, attempting to text Sherlock, but everything he wrote seemed insane. ‘I was trying to check her vitals to see if she was on something.’ Delete. ‘I wasn’t really kissing her, I was trying to get her off me but she’s like a fucking boa constrictor.’ Delete. ‘Sherlock, I lo-’ DELETE. 

[Do you want Chinese tonight? I’ll get it on the way home. - JW] 

Even though they’d had take-out the night before, if they were going to have a fight tonight over Mary he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be in a mood to make dinner. He didn’t get a response until midway through his afternoon of patients and the answer caused his guts to twist unhappily. 

[No. -SH]

Shit.

John sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. He pushed the intercom button, summoning the receptionist. 

“Yes, Dr. Watson?”

“Nina, give me ten minutes before the next one. I’m having a personal emergency.” 

“Sure thing, Dr. Watson.” 

He rang Sherlock, but he didn’t expect an answer and he got none. He tried Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, no, dear, he hasn’t been home since you left for work this morning. I don’t know where he’s gone off to,” she told him. John hung up with her and swore to himself. Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was being caught in a compromising position with Mary just a day after telling Sherlock that he had..

What had he told Sherlock?

Just saying correct deduction wasn’t much of a declaration of feelings. Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck. 

He tried Lestrade. Which was a mistake. 

“What the fuck, John?” Lestrade said without even greeting him. “First, I’m breaking all the rules in letting Sherlock in on the case at all, then the government comes in and deletes all my files-” 

“Whoa, wait one second. What’s happening?” John asked, a sense of dread washing over him. 

“Sherlock’s asshat of a brother has taken the pufferfish case. Said it was linked to a disappearance. Sherlock told me to stop complaining about it because it was confidential and he couldn’t say anything else,” Lestrade said angrily. “After all the times I trusted him-” 

“Greg, he didn’t even tell me that. Can I take this to mean you haven’t seen him today? He’s gone off grid and I’m a bit worried about him,” John said, frowning. There was a long pause on the other line. “Is he with you now?”

“No,” Lestrade sighed. “Sorry, no. I’d tell you if I’d seen him but I haven’t. Is he- do you suspect he might be..?”

“I don’t know. Just keep an eye out for him and let me know if he turns up, okay? I’m concerned,” John said. He hung up and pressed the intercom button again. “Nina?” 

“Yes, Doctor Watson?”

“Reschedule my remaining patients today. It’s an emergency, I need to leave a bit early,” John instructed. The receptionist made an unhappy noise.

“You’re very busy today, sir. That’s a lot of people that would have to wait until tomorrow.” 

“I’m aware but, as I said, it’s an emergency. Apologize profusely on my behalf,” John said. He started to gather his keys and phone, checking once more for any messages. Nothing. 

“Of course, Doctor Watson,” she said. “Your one-thirty is here. Will you still see him?”

“Sure,” John agreed. He bit his lip nervously. “But he’s the last one.” 

“Sure thing, Doctor Watson.” 

John went out into the waiting room to collect his next patient, not able to wait for the aide to bring him back. A young man with dark hair was waiting for him, wearing a loose pair of sweatpants and a tight white tee shirt under a bomber jacket. His dark brown eyes were troublingly vacant. He looked familiar, but John was sure he hadn’t met the kid before. 

“Nice to meet you, I’m Doctor Watson,” John said, shaking the man’s hand and guiding him back to the room. 

“Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson. You can call me Jim.”

***

“Answer your phone, pain in my ass,” John said, annoyed that he had once more gotten Sherlock’s voicemail, stomping up the stairs to an empty apartment. After the office, he’d gone off towards the morgue but Molly hadn’t seen Sherlock at all today, and then he’d checked once more with Lestrade in person. Mycroft taking over the pufferfish case still had the detective ranting and raving, and it was a few hours before John could pry himself away. “Sherlock. Call me back. We need to talk.”

The living room was cold and dark, and the shadows seemed ominous in the dying light of the day. It would be full dark soon and John hated to think of Sherlock out there, alone and angry, possibly hurt. 

Feelings weren’t Sherlock’s strong suit and after what had happened, who knew how he would react. He had so many bad ways of dealing with negative situations, and John feared the worse. He leaned on the back of his chair, gripping the fabric upholstery until his fingers turned white. John wasn’t a superstitious man, but something, some unquantifiable thing, told him that Sherlock wasn’t okay. Sherlock, his brilliant, cruel, impossible genius, was in some kind of danger and John was helpless as to what he could do to prevent it. 

The door opened and closed downstairs. John felt instantly relieved and turned towards the door, hopeful that Sherlock was home for the night. He was too hopeful, however, and didn’t notice that the tread was all wrong. Mary came barreling through the doorway. 

“Oh, not again,” John groaned as she flung herself at him. 

“My John!” she sang, giving a happy sigh and nuzzling her face into his chest. He pushed her off, a little harder than he meant to, but he was sick of being assaulted by her. 

“Mary, we aren’t doing this again. Get out,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, hoping it would deter her. It didn’t. 

“Did you eat? Was work okay? How have you been? Are you hungry? I could cook,” she suggested, trying to pry his arms apart and reinsert herself against him. He rolled his shoulders and pulled away again. 

“No, no, no, I don’t know what you’re doing or what you’re on, but get out. I can’t have you here when Sherlock returns,” he told her. Mary’s eyes widened and she started to pout, but the whole look was comical, as if she weren’t really controlling her facial expressions. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock. Everyone is obsessed with Sherlock. He’s not the only genius in town. I’m pretty smart, too, you know,” Mary sulked. She turned away from him, feigning hurt, but at the same time she started to pick through things in their apartment. John watched as she touched papers that didn’t belong to her, flipped over couch cushions and pulled open drawers without shutting them again. 

“You’re insane! What are you doing- don’t touch- Sherlock wouldn’t-”

“Wouldn’t what?” Mary asked, taking a book off of the bookshelf, shaking it as though something was meant to fall out, and then tossing it to the floor. John winced as the spine bounced on the carpet. “You think he cares? He’s not even here.” 

More books followed to the ground, bending pages and denting covers. She was tearing a path of destruction through their room. Just as he was about to start shouting, he had a moment of cleverness. “Mary. Mary! Focus, do you know where Sherlock is?” 

Her hand paused, fingers barely brushing the worn out spine of an antique medical dictionary Sherlock had given him on some strange occasion. Her lips parted. She reminded him of a marionette with some of her strings cut and some held by an invisible manipulator, vacant look in her eyes. 

“No.” 

John frowned, wetting his lips. He tried in a more firm voice, one that he might use on a younger child who misbehaved during an examination. “Are you lying to me?” 

“Yes.” The word was choked out, as though she didn’t want to admit it. 

“Where is Sherlock, Mary?” John continued, stepping closer to her. She cowered away from him and forgot her search, instead attempting to dart around Sherlock’s chair to avoid him. 

“I can’t. Don’t ask me, I don’t know. Just tell me where you’ve hidden it and I’ll leave,” Mary bargained quickly, her sentences running together. 

“Mary. Where is Sherlock?” John asked, commanding tone growing stronger. He reached out and grabbed her by the arm, holding her tight. She started to struggle against him. 

“I’ll trade. Trade me, I’ll trade you,” Mary offered, tugging at her arm. “I don’t know, please-” 

“Mary, stop,” John said, and he got his other hand on her arm, pulling her in close. Lightning fast, her expression changed again, distress melting into something he could only describe as ‘butterflies and hearts’. She cooed and stopped struggling, attempting to lick her way up his throat. “No, nope, none of that. Stop. Mary, where is Sherlock?” 

Her hands wound into his pockets, making that weird, squeezing gesture again. “He’s dead.” 

“Dead?” John’s heart stopped. “You’re lying.” 

She tipped up, attempting to slide his coat off his shoulders. He’d forgotten he even had it on. “I’d never lie to you, my love.” 

“Enough!” he roared, pushing her back again. She managed to take his coat with her, clutching it against her chest. “Enough! I am not your love. Where?” 

“The bridge. The big one,” Mary told him, fear filling her eyes. She shook her head. “You can’t save him, John.” 

“I sure as fuck can,” John snarled, pushing past her to go up to his room. He retrieved his firearm from its hiding place and stomped back downstairs. He almost left without his jacket but as he looked into the living room he was startled into pausing. Mary was ripping at his jacket, tearing the lining open. Seams popped and tore. “Hey! What the absolute hell-” 

He stopped when she pulled her necklace from the destroyed lining where it had been sewn. Again, her expression shifted, and the longing vacancy turned into something more familiar. He felt strangely like he was watching her return to her body from some kind of out of body experience. 

“Thank God,” she breathed as sanity settled back into her bright green eyes. She tossed him the remains of his jacket, clasping the necklace around her throat once more. “He was a very good hider. You wouldn’t have thought of that location. Let’s go.”

“You’re not coming. Not with how you’ve been acting,” John told her, and he charged down the stairs. She followed close at his heels and when he stopped she smacked into his back. 

“Don’t be stupid, of course I’m coming with you. I promise I won’t be accosting you anymore,” she said. She winked at him with her usual bravado. He felt dizzy at the switch in her personality. 

“What just happened?” he asked, trying to hail a cab. The rain had died down, but the streets were icy and black. 

“Best not to ask. You wouldn’t understand anyway. Also, I’m not buying you a new coat. Blame your boyfriend for that one,” Mary told him, ducking into the car as it pulled up and sliding across so he could follow her in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things real quick:  
> -I keep forgetting to mention this but my Selkie!Mary is inspired by Curse of the Cool Coat (I think). I read that years ago, I re-read it often, it's a fic I really enjoy and I'm so used to no one reading my work that sometimes I forget to mention where I learned something. 
> 
> \- I started posting this in 2015, I think. The original story actually was written in 2012. I'm having so many feelings about it almost being over. I'm going to try to finish it this week or next, but wow, I feel weird about it. 
> 
> \- This is a gift for my writing partner, who I've been writing secret Sherlock fic with since 2012. I wrote an original Mary Morstan character that we both are in love with and I just hate not writing her, so we're making her an original character in this by changing her last name. Just wanted to update you for future chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please Read Tags**
> 
> \- No beta because I'm a heathen. American Philly Canon because that's my favorite city in the world. OC/Ooc Mary character (end notes explain)

They leaned against the metal railing, staring out into the void. At night, even with the streetlamps that dotted the bridge and the city lights in the distance, the river was as dark as the sky. Sherlock was sure if John were here, he’d make some romantic comparison to a black hole, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to be so quixotic, especially with the task at hand. Behind them, cars passed. People continued on with their lives. Somewhere in the city, criminals were still creating puzzles to be solved. Patients were still requiring medical care. Brothers were worrying about their headstrong siblings. Somewhere, John was probably just leaving work and texting him once more about a dinner they would not have. 

They would not be able to discuss what he’d been doing with Mary that morning or with Sherlock the day before. 

And next to Sherlock, as calm as could be, was James Moriarty.

“Popped in on John at work today,” Moriarty teased. He gripped the railing as if to tether him to the spot. Sherlock didn’t dare. Although the snow experiment had proved that a certain solidity allowed him to remain human, he didn’t trust the dampness which was quickly freezing into ice. “He seemed disturbed. Did you have a row?” 

“You didn’t,” the detective said, keeping his calm. He couldn’t let Moriarty’s excitement penetrate his bored-looking exterior. It would feel a lot like losing if he did. 

“Mm, actually I did. He’s such a competent physician. It would be a shame if he couldn’t practice anymore,” Moriarty purred, leaning closer so their arms bumped. Sherlock pulled away. “You’ve disappointed me, Sherlock Holmes, but as disappointed as I’ve been, I have always admired your work.” 

Sherlock ignored him, sliding a box of cigarettes out of his pocket. Moriarty grinned and pulled out a lighter, flashing it to show Sherlock. “You got closer than others have before you. There were so many plans you tampered with, cases you solved. You very nearly threw a wrench in some of my projects.” 

“Can’t have that now, can you?” Sherlock murmured. He leaned forward, allowing Moriarty to light his cigarette for him and he took a deep drag. “I’d offer you one, but who knows. They might have been _tampered_ with.” 

“Smoking _is_ bad for you,” Moriarty agreed, frowning. “You naughty boy, you.”

Sherlock held the smoke in his lungs, savoring it, while he thought about his response to that. Finally, he breathed out of the corner of his mouth, politeness ruling over the urge to blow it right in Moriarty’s face. His eyes narrowed. “You’re the naughty one. Why fish people? How could such an affliction be useful to you? It’s very inconvenient.” 

“Inconvenience that has been keeping you off my heels,” Moriarty allowed. “That’s been very useful. It took you so long to solve that case and in the end I had to tell you the answer myself.” 

Sherlock refused to be distracted. He took another casual drag. “Why.” 

It was a demand, not a question. 

“Say it, Sherlock,” Moriarty giggled. He turned so he was looking out at the blackness of the river, which was almost as dark as his large eyes. His smile was unhinged. “Mermaid. Sherlock Holmes, the mermaid.” 

“This is a reversible situation. It must be, and I will find the answer,” Sherlock swore, a second of emotion getting through his cool facade. He tapped the ash before taking another drag. If this was going to be a final cigarette he was determined to make the most of it. “You still haven’t answered my question.” 

“You’re so confident you’re going to walk away from this encounter, aren’t you?” Moriarty asked. He stepped lightly, almost dancing, as he tried to circle Sherlock, forcing the detective to spin to keep him sight. “You’re so sure that Big Brother will save you. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the lack of joggers? Even in this weather there would be some foot traffic. Come on, now, Sherlock, who do you think you’re playing with?”

“Mycroft isn’t a God. He doesn’t control the physical activity of the general populace during ice storms,” Sherlock replied. “However, I am confident. And you still haven’t answered me.” 

Moriarty regarded him for a long while, leaning with one elbow on the railing. “Perhaps. Perhaps you will. You have been almost clever enough. But why are you picking on little old me? I’m just like you- an independent consultant, if you will. I was merely piggybacking on your brother’s original research. He’s not an angel, and I’m just providing a client with information.” 

“Is it information that might help to start World War three?” Sherlock asked, wondering for a moment if that was the right number. It felt like they’d already had a three. 

“Why should you care, Sherlock?” Moriarty shrugged, an exaggerated frown on his face, wrinkling his chin. “Let the world burn. What does it all really matter?” 

The world was where John Watson lived. The world had Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. It had puzzles to solve, walls to shoot and violin music. The world had seen fit to create the perfect circumstances for one out of service army doctor to meet and move in with one strange consulting detective. That’s what mattered. Perhaps John was a bad influence on Sherlock, if he was going to be prone to these moments of whimsical musings. 

“It matters,” Sherlock replied, letting his cigarette fall to the ground before stamping it out with his foot. 

“Very well, then. Shall we?” Moriarty said, a delighted grin spreading across his face.

***

“I know you don’t trust me, John. I can’t make you, but honestly, I don’t know much more than you do. I was- I wasn’t thinking clearly and Sherlock didn’t actually tell me anything,” Mary was saying in a hurried rush. She bit her lip nervously and rubbed her hands together. She seemed impatient for the cab to hurry up.

“What about the case? I called Lestrade this afternoon and he mentioned the cases that Sherlock was working on. Do you know anything about them?” John probed. Mary didn’t like that question. Her features became pinched and guarded. 

“In a way. I can tell you, as Jennifer’s friend, that she’s been killed and that Sherlock knows how, I think. I wasn’t actually there but I think he saw the body.” Mary grimaced, and John wondered if she’d seen the body, too. “She was in love with a married woman. When they made plans to leave together, it came back to bite her in the tit. That’s all I can say. I think.” 

John nodded, not liking the ominous feeling that was settling in his stomach. “And your boss, the restaurant guy, he’s somehow involved in that? He wants to hurt Sherlock?” 

Mary frowned, glancing at the back of the cab driver’s head. Eventually, she let out a breath and nodded. “Yes, kind of. And not just Sherlock. He’s more than my boss, but that’s all I can say, John, really.” 

He didn’t press her further. The city around them was a dark blur as the cab sped towards the bridge. Mary’s hand inched towards his, closing over it and giving him a squeeze. “It’ll be alright, John. I believe in you.” 

“I’d be more confident if I had some idea of what we were going into,” he told her. He pressed his lips together, nostrils flaring with worry. She didn’t try to comfort him. 

“We’re here,” she said. The cab pulled up to the entrance for the pedestrian walkway and she was out of the door almost before the cab had stopped moving. John flung some cash at the driver, apologizing. 

“Wait, can’t we get closer if-” he started, but she was racing up the stairs and the cab was pulling away. She almost fell from the ice and he rushed to stabilize her. 

“It’ll be easier to run from here. If we pull up in a cab, they’ll see us coming,” Mary explained, hands on his shoulders as she tried to stand without sliding. “Come on!” 

Together they took off up the stairs and started running across the bridge. John avoided one particularly slippery patch but had to stop to grip her again. “How do you know which side they’re on?” 

“I don’t! I’m guessing,” Mary said. She grabbed his hand and pulled him forward impatiently. 

Everything he remembered about that night after it happened would be both too fast and too slow. Sometimes he could recall with perfect clarity every minute detail and others it felt like looking at an old security video where everything is blurry and grainy and you wonder how police even catch criminals with that kind of footage. The streetlamps, he was sure, were casting a bluish sheen on everything, creating a supernatural, ominous glow. He could remember how treacherous the sidewalks were, but also how beautiful, glistening as if they were paved in brilliant gems. There were plenty of shadows where the streetlamps weren’t able to reach, plunging them in light one minute and dark the next as Mary and John raced together. 

He would remember the twist of Sherlock’s coat in the air as he grappled with Moriarty in the distance. It reminded him of wings, black and fierce, billowing out behind an avenging angel. 

John didn’t remember ever hearing a gunshot, but then again, Moriarty had professionals working for him and snipers never made much noise. 

He did remember the dead weight of Mary as she fell backwards, tugging him as well, just as another bullet embedded itself in a railing near them. He could recall the color of Mary’s blood, redder than her hair, and the sound of her head cracking on the sidewalk as she fell. 

He remembered looking back at Sherlock. This is where it got fuzzy. 

A punch landed on Moriarty, pushing him momentarily away from the detective. Sherlock’s eyes locked with John’s. He glanced down to Mary, then back at John, and gave a single nod. 

Take care of her, it said. I’ll be fine.

And John, nodded, accepting the order as if it had come from a commanding officer. Sherlock was an experienced fighter. Everything would be okay. 

He’s pretty sure that part was real. 

He slipped again, but tried to apply pressure to her stomach. 

“Sh-Sherlock,” she said, paler than he’d ever seen her. 

“Shut up, Mary,” John snapped. “Don’t speak, come on, stay with me-” 

“N-NO! Sherlock!” Mary said again, and it was with such vehemence he glanced back up at the detective. 

Strangely, he hadn’t remembered taking out his phone, but he later recalled the sound of it clattering to the ground and the nine-one-one operator’s voice echoing as it fell. 

Sherlock and Moriarty were locked in a tight embrace. They were slipping on an ice patch. They were tumbling over the railing and into the frigid waters below.

John didn’t remember much of anything after that.

***

He hadn’t been to work in weeks and he was fairly certain if he didn’t turn up soon he was going to get fired. He tried to see his therapist once and left so pissed off, with echoes of Sherlock’s voice in his head telling him what a shit doctor she was, that he was probably going to get fired from her care.

It didn’t matter. 

He was a soldier. He would get through this, he knew. But somehow he just wasn’t prepared for the world without Sherlock Holmes in it. 

So he sat in his red chair, staring at Sherlock’s modern monstrosity. The violin was cradled amongst the cushions where Sherlock had left it that fateful morning. His playing had woken John up that day at something like, four A.M., and John had just laid in bed, listening. He should’ve gotten up and said something or done something- 

But he hadn’t. He’d gone to work. He’d kissed Mary. 

They’d both left him. 

He heard Mrs. Hudson opening the door for Mycroft but he couldn’t bring himself to move or care. 

“John,” Mycroft said when he finally reached the top stair, standing in the doorway to the apartment. John didn’t look at him. “I’ve got some photographs. If you’d like to see, from a doctor’s perspective, of course.” 

John looked over at him. Mycroft appeared as perfectly pressed as ever, his three piece suit without any crease or imperfection, but John saw the redness in his eyes and heard the hoarseness in his throat. He nodded. 

“Not in here. Let’s um, go into the kitchen,” John said. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling as though his limbs were made of cement, weighing him down. “Coffee?” 

“Don’t trouble yourself, John,” Mycroft said. He assumed Sherlock’s brother meant that kindly but even in grief Mycroft managed to sound condescending. Arrogant. Too much like Sherlock. He held a large envelope and from it he withdrew the photographs of the body, placing them on the kitchen table. 

John reached out to touch one, but he shook his head. 

“Christ,” he swore, pushing the photos back towards Mycroft. He pressed his hands against his eyes, throat tight. “Put them away. I just can’t.” 

Not when it had been his fault.

“Of course.” Mycroft took the photos and put them back in the folder. He pursed his lips before continuing. “It had been several days, but the DNA evidence as well as other factors-” 

“Yes, yeah, okay, I get it,” John said, pushing harder, concentrating on the patterns the darkness provided. To him, it could have been a galaxy of spots. Sherlock would have corrected him with scientific facts about veins in his eyes or some shit. 

“Miss Hooper was understandably disturbed,” Mycroft told him. He huffed. “Moriarty is dead, John. Sherlock did the world a service. Never doubt that.” 

“That’s, um, not what I think about,” John admitted. He pulled his hands from his eyes and looked at Mycroft, nostrils flared in distress. Mycroft sighed. 

“There were cameras, John. I’ve reviewed the footage. There was nothing you could have attempted that would have prevented this unfortunate outcome. Sherlock didn’t anticipate your arrival, nor did he know there would be a sniper present. Moriarty didn’t enjoy loose ends. Neither Sherlock nor Miss Willowmere would have survived that night,” Mycroft explained patiently. 

“Okay, okay, I still don’t feel better, though,” John said, flexing is hands at his side. He was itching to do something, anything- punch something, even. Anything to get out of this frustrating, abysmal conversation. “If I’d been home earlier, maybe I could have gone with him.” Mycroft was already shaking his head. 

“Surely, you are aware of the attachment my brother felt towards you. He would have found a way to slip past you and meet Moriarty alone.” 

John slammed his hands on the table, the loud noise taking Mycroft off-guard. “And there was nothing you could have done? You’re the whole fucking government, aren’t you?” 

“No. I was informed of his intentions too late. John,” Mycroft said evenly, maintaining cool eye contact with the doctor, “he was my brother.” John just shook his head. 

“Yeah. Okay, fine.” 

“Take your time, John. Grief is a horrible thing,” Mycroft told him, tucking the envelope back under his arm. “Know that my brother cared about you as he had no one else before him.” With sad, lumbering steps, Mycroft left the apartment. 

John felt suffocated. 

He left the kitchen and looked around at everything in the living room, his heart racing. He hadn’t brought much with him when he’d moved in, which was fortunate because Sherlock had already cluttered up the place enough for two. There was the murder wall with the most recent case pictures and clues still pinned up and tied with string. The bookshelves with tomes of ancient languages, medical texts, random papers, violin music, all of it sticking out chaotically and with a total disregard for any type of organization. An empty package of nicotine patches on the corner of one table. 

John couldn’t breathe. 

Everything here was Sherlock’s. Nothing here was John’s. 

He sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. 

Nothing here was Sherlock.

***

Molly had worked in the morgue a long, long time. She’d seen bodies do some impossible things. She’d learned a lot about ‘strange stuff dead bodies do’ while in school to become a doctor. In her many years of working with the dead, nothing had phased her yet.

Until one of the drawers started making a scratching noise. 

Even then, she started to blame her nerves on an awful horror movie she’d watched the night before while attempting to take her mind off of her friend’s death. This was a city morgue, of course they had a stray mouse every now and again, that’s all the scratching probably was. 

Then, it got louder. 

And the drawer started to push itself open very, very slowly. 

She always sort of knew this day would come. Molly also knew she was probably supposed to be screaming but, honestly, if the zombie apocalypse was going to come, screaming was very impractical and wouldn’t help her at all. Not to mention she was a doctor and a researcher at heart. Curiosity was winning over horror as the drawer continued to inch further and further out into the room.

The woman in the drawer sat up.

Molly was pretty sure they weren’t meant to do that. 

Red, matted hair frizzed all around the pale woman’s freckled face and her skin was hauntingly white under the fluorescents. Molly hadn’t quite gotten to processing as a bus crash had flooded the morgue, not to mention having to process the bloated, water-damaged wreck that Sherlock’s body had been. A Jane Doe with no one to claim her was further down the list. They’d taken all of the woman’s clothes, of course, but they hadn’t managed to remember the greenish key that hung on a chain around her neck. Molly started to speak, and she didn’t know what she was saying but the woman started to frown. 

“No, no, silly girl. I’m not a zombie,” she told her, shaking her head. She lifted her arms over her head, arching her back until bones popped. Then she tilted her head from side to side, stretching out her neck. “Hush! I don’t want to eat you.” 

“Okay, but how are you- It’s just very unusual that- You see, I processed you, and I just-” 

“Good Lord, it’s chilly in here. Could you spare your lab coat? You could toss it to me, if you’d like,” the woman said. “You know, if you’re not going to have a heart attack first.” 

“It’s just, we were about to process you,” Molly said stupidly, although she was shrugging out of her thin white jacket. She took a few shaky steps forward to hand it to the woman. 

“Oh, I won’t need that, I think,” the lady said, sliding her coat over her arms, pulling it tight around her. She was more curvy and well-endowed than Molly, so it wasn’t much coverage, but at least it was something. “I’m not dead today. Saves you some work, doesn’t it?” 

“I-I guess,” Molly said. “Excuse me, um, is this a joke? It’s okay, if it is, I’m not mad but you do look like the body that we put in there and she was definitely dead. Doctor Watson and I both confirmed it.” 

The lady’s expression turned sad. “Oh, poor John. I’ll have to make it up to him somehow.” 

She fluffed out her hair and turned, sliding slowly off of the slab until her feet touched the floor. Then she rolled her ankles, testing and stretching each leg until she was satisfied. “He’s such a good friend. He tried everything to save me, you know. Oh, don’t bother filling out your report. I already told you, I’m not dead today.” 

“Okay, but you were?” Molly tried. She’d never had to argue with a corpse before. This is why she preferred non-living patients. She wondered how she’d account for a whole missing body. It used to be bad enough trying to account for missing fingers or toes for Sherlock- oh, oh, no, poor Sherlock. “I know you said you weren’t dead but I don’t think you can leave yet. Not when-”

“Darlin, try to stop me.” The lady shivered once more for good measure and then started towards the door. “Never get cursed, dear. It’s a bitch to deal with.” 

“But where are you going? You were just dead?” Molly asked, unable to believe what she witnessed. 

The woman laughed and turned to look at Molly with the brightest green eyes she’d ever seen. “Why, I’m going to get Doctor Watson his boyfriend back.” 

And with that, she strode out of the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thank you to Carla and G. for listening to me.  
> * Thank you to MadMags for beta-ing skills and providing the original A.E. inspiration  
> * HAPPY BIRTHDAY Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
> * I've been writing this since 2012. I'm really happy to see it completed. 
> 
> * * * Every Equation must have a Solution * * * 
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, please check out my other works.


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